Uncivil Union
by urbankazoos
Summary: A story based loosely on the movie "What Happens In Vegas." But you know, with a Spashley twist. Spencer and Ashley both spend a wild weekend in L.A., but when it's time to deal with the consequences, will they come in the form of a wedding ring?
1. Chapter 1

**Spencer**:

I needed something. I needed a lot of things.

More money.

More sex.

More furniture.

More cable channels.

But with all that necessity, what I needed the most was a break. A break from work. A break from the incessant pace of the city. I needed a vacation. You know, one of those things that normal people make time for? They usually call up an agency who sends them to some tropical paradise where they drink exotic beverages by the beach all day and have unprotected sex with other sunburned, drunk people.

That would be sweet.

But it wasn't an option. I was too busy with all the things that I needed a break from in the first place. It was a vicious cycle that I had somehow volunteered myself for despite knowing I needed stasis. A moment of my own divine perfection in an otherwise imperfect world could've done the trick. But as I said…

Not an option.

I mean, don't get me wrong. There was a large part of me—or at least an important part—that was happy. I was in love. Great job. Exciting goldfish. Beautiful loft. I just didn't feel like I had the time to enjoy the benefits of my toiling. It was disheartening. It was frustrating. But mostly, it was reality. And I had learned many years ago that life was just that.

_Life_.

Whether it was going good or bad, just as long as it was going then you had to work for what you ultimately wanted.

I was a hard worker. If I wanted something, you see, I went for it like an STD on a co-ed. I'd always been that way. I graduated from college magna cum laude _and_ not to mention with my virginity in tact. No eating disorders. No pregnancy scares. No hazing horror stories. Just an honors cord as I walked across the stage in front of my crying, applauding parents.

I got my masters in interior design and from there—the dream job. Gensler Architects. I was a consultant. I made more money than I should, but not enough to carry a light work load. That was for the big guys. And while I did have plans of getting there one day…it was simply not that day.

With that job went the virginity. I almost immediately started dating a co-worker who worked almost as hard as I did. Carmen Morales. She was fiercely determined, fiercely attractive, and she could do fiercely difficult algebra in her head—a preferable if not necessary ability. And as soon as the laws changed, she got down on one knee and asked me to marry her.

I was ecstatic. I had been planning my perfect wedding all my life. I'm sure at six months-old I was flipping through _Bride_ magazine and doggy-earing all the best pages. At least that's what I had been doing as of late. In fact, it was what I was doing when my best friend called to invite me on the trip that would ultimately change my life.

"Hello?" I answered, glad to have the distraction. If no one's ever told you, it's intense work picking out the perfect wedding dress. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"Spence!"

"Chelsea, hey. Why are you so excited? Did someone die?"

"Oh my God. No."

"Oh," I said with a shrug she couldn't see.

"Listen, I have incredible news for you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Don't be a cynical bitch, Spencer. I know you, ok? And right now you're making that face you make. You know the one…where you're like, daring someone to impress you?"

I looked at my reflection in the mirror directly across from my expensive leather couch. She knows me too well it seems.

"I'm not making a face," I lie.

"Shutup. You are. Anyway, that's not important right now. The important thing is you and I are taking this weekend and going to L.A."

"You know I can't."

"Before you decide what you can and cannot do, hear me out."

"Ok, I'm listening. But the answer will always be the same. Now…go ahead."

"Ok. That friend I've been telling you about who lives in L.A. wants me to housesit for him…"

"That guy with the seven toes?"

"It's six."

"My bad."

"Yeah, anyway, he lives in this amazing house on the beach. Like, this super sweet place that overlooks…"

"Don't care. Can't go."

"Why the fuck not?"

"I have wedding stuff to do with Carmen. We're choosing the menu for the reception on Saturday. It's important."

"That's stupid. You should come with me and get some sun. At least that way you'll look hot at your dumb wedding."

"Not everyone's a slut, Chelsea. Some of us like the idea of getting married and settling down."

"I'm not a slut. I just sleep with a lot of people."

"Um…"

"Give it some thought, Spence. Seriously. It would do you some good to get away for a couple days."

"I know, but I don't have time for things that are good for me right now. I have a wedding to plan."

"Wow."

"That sounds bad, but you know what I mean."

"Fine, fine. I get it. But I'm still going to call you tomorrow just to see if you've changed your mind."

"You know I never change my mind."

"There's a first time for everything."

I was in the bath when Carmen arrived. She used the key I gave her the night she proposed. She popped the question at IKEA. She was just romantic that way.

"Spencer!" I heard her yell from the kitchen.

"I'm in the bath!"

"Spencer?!"

"I'm in the bath!" I screamed, satisfied when I heard her footsteps making their way towards the bathroom.

She walked in wearing a dark blue Black Label Armani suit. I know because I bought it for her on our one-year anniversary. She bought be all new state-of-the-art kitchen appliances. We were both pleased.

"Are you coming in?" I asked, attempting a seductive tone.

She paused for a second before striding over. But she didn't undress. And in the fleeting candle light I could see that she wasn't in the mood for a mutual hygienic experience.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"We have to talk."

Most people would be scared of a statement like that. But not me. Oh no. I had never been broken up with, fired, or grounded. So that sentence carried very little weight to a girl like me.

"Sure. Go for it," I replied, beaming at her.

Ever heard of happiness by association?

"I'm so sick of this," she said, sighing deeply, "I'm so tired of us."

"What?"

"I'm tired of being with you."

"What?"

"I want to break up."

"What?"

"Spencer! I know you're hearing me!" she shouted, obviously annoyed.

"We're engaged," I said, refusing to panic. This was a misunderstanding. I mean, my fiancé never broke up with me in a bath tub in my childhood fantasy of my happily ever after. Therefore, this was absolutely not happening. No way.

"I know. We have to call it off."

"I have two-hundred people coming from Bumfuck, Ohio!" I screamed, splashing the water with my fists, "I have a caterer and a priest and a goddamn children's choir!"

She looked scared now, but persisted, "I understand. But all these ridiculous plans, Spencer…they're a really big part of why this can't work."

"We can't work because I booked a children's choir? Who do you want, Carmen? The cast of 'Rent?' The Rolling Stones? The fucking Teletubbies? Who do you want? Who the fuck do I have to call to get you to marry me?"

"You don't get it."

"Obviously not!"

"I don't want to live my life on Spencer Carlin's schedule. I don't want to be just another one of your plans. I want to be in love with someone who doesn't just think of me as a logical next step in their adulthood."

"Is this some kind of strange prank?"

"No!"

"I don't believe you."

"I'm leaving. Do you want your key back?"

"You're not leaving me," I said, emerging from the tub so I could get a good look at her face, "I'm leaving _you_!"

"You're not seriously doing this," she replied, shaking her head.

"Oh yes I am! You know what, Carmen? I'm thrilled that this is happening. I really am. I feel like a twenty-million pound weight has just been lifted from my life. This is fucking beautiful!"

"Stop it."

"I mean, let's face it. I'm too good for you. I'm more successful, I have better abs, I had a better college GPA, I'm amazing at Sudoku…"

"Thanks for making this so easy, Spencer," Carmen said, walking out of the bathroom and towards the front door.

"I make better margaritas than you do, I have better clothes, my laundry detergent smells better…"

I followed her all the way through the living room, talking mostly to her back.

"Bye," she said, before slamming the door, leaving me alone in my over-sized loft.

I had never had to confront heartache or disappointment, but I had the feeling a person's not supposed to do it sober—or without their insane best friends.

I picked up my phone from the couch and dialed Chelsea's number.

"What's up?" she asked immediately.

"I'm coming with you."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you said you wouldn't change your mind," Chelsea said with a surprised laugh.

"There's a first time for everything."


	2. Chapter 2

**Ashley**:

"Ashley…Ash?"

Why do people shake people to wake them up? What kind of sadistic motherfucker would want someone to wake up to the sensation of their body being shaken like some kind of slumbering ragdoll? Aiden, apparently. My best friend.

He's an asshole.

"Ashley!" he screamed again, this time next to my right ear.

"I obviously hear you, you maniacal douchebag. I hear you!" I finally yell back, jumping out of bed, "what the hell do you want?"

"In that case…" he replied, walking out of my room.

Shit. I'm sure he had something important to say. A perfectly good reason for waking me up. Something all…friendly and considerate. I can't help it that I'm not a morning person. God didn't make me that way. He also didn't make an alarm that I could tolerate enough to swing by Radio Shack and purchase that digital shit. So I had Aiden. Slightly less annoying. Equally vapid. Absolutely free.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I said, following him into our disaster of living room.

"You know I know you well enough by now to know you don't mean it."

"That's why I love you, Tiger Beat."

"I hate that nickname."

"Then stop going to the gym. Stop getting facials. Stop getting all of your clothes from an episode of 'Undressed', get in a car wreck and mess up that pretty little man face of yours and then I'll stop…maybe. Actually no. I'll never stop."

"I know you well enough by now to know that too."

"So how's the moving going?" I asked, collapsing on the couch.

"I'm almost done. One box in the car and it'll be like you never even had a roommate."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"So I'll probably never see you again, huh? Like, now that you're becoming an adult and going it alone."

"Aren't you doing the same thing?"

"Oh no. There's a big difference between you and me, kid. You _chose_ to abandon me and move on with your life or whatever. I'm the victim in this shit. I'm getting left alone in this huge apartment where I'll probably die with twenty cats, a bottle of Jack, and a guitar with three strings. Don't worry though. It's fine."

"Ashley…"

"No, seriously. It'll be great. I'll get an aquarium…some plants. Maybe like a DVD box set or three. Call it a day. Hell, call it a life, even. I'm practically done."

"You're so dramatic," Aiden said with a laugh, "what I mean is that someone's career is finally taking off. You got that big audition this weekend in L.A. It's in the bag right? No problem?"

"That's what they say. But I'm not getting my hopes up. I still have to read for the network. Then maybe…we'll see. Stop talking about it, ok? It's freaking me out."

"You've got it," he said, smiling and nodding like a proud parent.

"Stop it! I'm serious."

"Ashley, you're an incredible actress. You kinda suck as a human being. But you're an amazing actress and it's about to pay off big time. I hear that show's going to be huge."

"God, it's so weird because I feel like I just told you not to talk about it anymore but since you're still talking about it, I must be having hallucinations or something. Because I know you wouldn't completely disregard a request like that. That would make you a bad friend, right? Right."

"Ok, ok. I'm letting it go, but I'm not taking back anything I said."

"So are you coming with me to L.A. or what, Tiger Beat?"

"Do you really want me to come or is this some sort of set up for an insult or a joke or something?"

"No, I really want you to come. My agent booked a great hotel. It's got like, three or four-hundred bars in the lobby."

"I'm sure that's accurate," Aiden said, folding a t-shirt that I was almost positive actually belonged to me.

Whatever.

"Totally a rough estimate, actually."

"Does this mean you're showing up drunk to your audition?"

"No way. I'm a kick-ass alcoholic, Aiden. You know this. I'll start early in the day so I'll be drunk enough to go to bed super early and be good and ready for the audition—which is at one. Plenty of time, kid. Plenty of time."

"Then sure, I'd love to go."

"Good. I can come pick you up in your new neighborhood and we'll hit the road."

"Excellent," he nodded, bending down to grab the last box, "I'm going to go throw this shit in the car and then…we'll do the goodbye thing, alright?"

"Sure," I replied, the reality settling in like a shot of bourbon.

So yeah, I'm a wannabe actress with a metrosexual, wannabe model best friend who plucks my eyebrows for me and wishes me luck when I go to a reading. And to be perfectly honest with you, my life was at that horrible juncture where you have to achieve your dream or get the real job you had thought all your life was created for people less talented than you or who simply enjoyed the flavor of coffee and monotony. Shit or get off the pot is the technical phrase, I think.

My love life was in the shitter, of course. I mean, don't get me wrong. Women are super. But every girl I had gone out with for the past few months had made me want to invest in a fanny pack full of arsenic. It was ok though, because I needed to focus on my career. Mrs. Right…or Mrs. Davies, rather, would have to wait. What's she like, you ask? She makes the perfect omelet, she performs immaculate cunnilingus, doesn't borrow my clothes, smells like a garden breeze, and recycles.

Yeah, that's right. I care about the environment or whatever.

And when she comes around, all gloriously aromatic and totally chill and stuff, I hope my career is where it needs to be. Getting off the ground.

Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. Fine. You're right. You do in fact know me from somewhere.

Jesus.

I was on a little show called "Teenagers on the Edge." It was a classless little drama about four teenage girls who bitch and moan for roughly forty-three minutes. Well all those forty-three minute bitchfests added up to a good four years of my life and the show that was once number thirteen in households all across this fine country of ours became the show that rained holy fucking typecasting hell all over my once bright career. I was called by my character's name—Veronica Hurt—more times than my own, and I figured it was time to get out of the business for awhile. Let people forget about me and then try again.

If this final audition went well for me, I'd finally get my chance. And jokes aside, I needed it. I wanted to prove more than anything that I was a real actress. It wasn't about the money—I had tons of that shit—and it wasn't about the fame. I just wanted an opportunity to get in front of a camera and do what I love to do. And unlike the last few months of my life, this time I wanted to be doing something other than having sex.

"Ok, so that's that," Aiden said, shutting the front door behind him as he re-entered the apartment.

"So I guess that's it," I say, knowing that I'll never be able to vocalize how much I'd miss his presence. It kept me sane.

And who the hell was going to wake me up now? I hadn't even thought of that.

"This is it," he answered, throwing his bulky arms around my waist, "I'll miss knowing you're in the next room, Ash."

"God, I will too. Like on those nights when you'd have crazy loud sex with the unattractive neighbor when you were really drunk and it would keep me up until the wee hours of the morning. That was really great."

"Be nice," he said, refusing to let me out of his embrace.

"I'll miss you," I admitted quietly.

"Wait…what?"

"Stop it. I said I'll miss you, ok?"

"Good."

"Good? Good? You're rejoicing in the fact that I'm going to be sad and lonely?"

"Sometimes it's good to know that you actually like me. That's all."

"I don't. I totally don't. But you know…I do."

He laughed, "Thanks."

"So L.A.? Drive down on Friday night so we can have some extra time to party?"

"Absolutely. And who knows, Ash? Maybe you'll meet someone who counts."

"Someone who counts? What does that even mean? Like math? Numbers?"

"Come on, like girlfriend potential."

"I don't date. You know that."

"It's time. Maybe if you were willing to let your guard down…"

"I don't date. It's all about my career now and you know that. But I'm willing to hook up."

"Hooking up gets old."

"No, _people_ get old and then they stop hooking up."

"You'll see, Ashley Davies. One day some girl is going to make you want to settle down."

"Nope. Sorry."

"Crazier things have happened, Ash," Aiden said, shaking his head, "especially in L.A."


	3. Chapter 3

**Spencer**:

The six-hour drive from my glorious San Francisco loft all the way down I-5 was just what I needed to clear my head. Of course Chelsea was talking a mile a minute, but after four years of living with her in our 3X5 college dorm, I was highly trained in tuning her out. Not that I was a bad friend. It's just that Chelsea is convinced that when something is bothering us, it's important to talk. So that's what she did. She was talking for the both of us, attempting to drown out the trumpeting of the elephant in the car.

I had never been dumped. Not even by the teenaged boys I kept on a twelve-foot leash in college. You know, the ones that I let nowhere near my vagina as a means to prevent unplanned pregnancy. Well, there was one more reason I suppose…

I'm a raging dyke.

So now I joined the elite ranks of women everywhere mending a broken heart, listening to terribly sappy IPOD playlists and jumping every time my cell phone rings.

It's never, ever her.

But one day it will be. One day—when I've moved on to bigger and more deserving things—she's going to regret the day she walked out on Spencer Carlin.

"A penny for your thoughts, Spence," Chelsea said, grinning like the maniac she was.

I loved her for it. Most of the time.

"You can't afford me then."

"Girl, listen. You need to either talk about what's going on with you or talk about what's going on with you. Those are your two options."

"I don't like those."

"Then I'm pulling over and you're walking your ass back home. Sorry, I forgot to mention that option before."

"I don't like that one very much either."

"Then talk to me. What's going on?"

"I think it's pretty obvious, Chelsea. Do you remember a few days ago when I was engaged?"

"Yeah."

"Really? Great. Well in case you've forgotten, I'm not anymore."

"All this over Carmen?"

"We were getting married!" I yelled, throwing my hands up.

"You didn't even like her that much."

I narrowed my eyes at her, "Yes I did, thank you very much!"

"I've known you a long time, Spencer. And let me tell you something, you were not into that girl. She just fit nicely in your little…your little…Day Planner."

"See, what is this? Why does everyone think I have this grand plan of the way my life is supposed to happen?"

"Um…because you do?"

"I have a general layout, ok? A few preferences. Everyone does. And if they don't, then they're probably homeless."

"No, some people actually go with the flow. You ever heard of that? Just letting things happen? Living in the present?"

"Homeless. They're homeless."

"Sometimes, Spencer…I really don't know about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, wondering if this trip was a good idea after all.

"I worry that you'll never be happy…that you'll keep boxing people in not even realizing how trapped that makes you, let alone them."

"You think I try to trap people?"

She shakes her head, "You don't get it."

"Then why do you still hang out with me, huh? If I'm such a horrible person."

"Because you're not a horrible person at all. You're an amazing person. And you're my best friend. I just want you to be happy."

"I know," I say quietly, smiling, "me too."

Two bathroom stops, a tank of gas, and a questionable rest stop later, we arrived at the abode of Mr. Six Toes. And as much as I hated to give the guy credit, it was pretty nice. Two Stories. Three bedrooms. A pool. And a massive deck overlooking the ocean. Chelsea had already politely ordered me not to jump and I agreed. Suicide wasn't in my life plan either.

We began the boozing almost right away. Trust me, I needed it. I needed to stop thinking about Carmen and the way she looked at me when I stepped out of the bath, hearing the words that were never supposed to come out of her mouth. I needed to stop thinking about Monday when I'd have to see her at work or the fact that I was back to square one on the dating scene or how she knew the password to my Netflix account. I needed to stop thinking. Period.

"Ok, we're so going out tonight," Chelsea said, before downing shot number two.

"Of course we are! Are you kidding? I'm going to find some girl who probably has Syphilis and do insane things to her, ok? Like, insane. And forget all about the fact that I was ever engaged to that…to that…"

"Whore!"

"Yeah! Whore!" I said, toasting our shot glasses, "but actually she wasn't really a whore. She was kind of a prude if anything."

"Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"We call girls that we don't like whores. We just do. We don't mean it literally. It's just easy to yell when we're drunk."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Ok, well cool. Then she's a fucking…motherf…she's a whore!"

"See how easy that is?"

Chelsea was still in a decent enough state to call a cab to take us out, and when the guy showed up she was in a decent enough state to drag me behind her out of the house and into the backseat. People, this is what friendship is all about.

"Hey, we just want to go somewhere where we can have a good time," she told the driver, while my face cuddled with the glass window.

"It's L.A. That's everywhere!" he yelled, slightly annoyed already.

"Fine, take us where you take everybody else then."

And so he did. We were on our way to a night of drunken, sexual debauchery courtesy of this city called Los Angeles.

Or not.

He dropped us off at a fancy hotel and burned rubber pulling away from the curb. We were pretty much stranded. Not that I noticed of course. I was too busy thinking I was awesome. The false self-esteem alcohol gives me is the kind of thing you learn about in health class. You know, before they show the peer pressure video and a picture of a girl like me who only realizes her own self-worth when downing wine coolers in someone's backyard.

"Why the fuck did he drop us off here?" Chelsea asked, walking towards the large sliding doors.

"Who knows?" I shrugged, throwing my arm around her neck.

"No more drinks for you, by the way."

"Oh sure…mom!"

"I'm serious, Spencer!"

I stood up tall, saluting her before collapsing in a fit of giggles on the ground.

"I can get up myself."

As soon as we made it through the doors, it was clear why we had been abandoned here. This wasn't just any hotel. It was the kind of hotel guys booked for their bachelor parties. It was the kind of hotel Paris Hilton made sex tapes in. It was the kind of hotel that was going to help me forget about that chick named Carmen.

"Come on," I said, pulling Chelsea behind me.

There were bars everywhere. There were people everywhere. And since I was interested in being inside both for the evening, I was quite pleased.

"This place is ridiculous," Chelsea said, sounding excited.

"I know! And look," I said pointing to a table at a sleek bar a few feet away.

There was a couple sitting close, laughing and sipping from trendy beer bottles.

"What?" Chelsea asked, obviously no recognizing the girl.

"Don't tell me you don't know who that is!"

"You're pretty drunk. Whoever you think it is, it's probably not her."

"No, no, no. I love that show. I'd know her anywhere."

"I'll never guess. Just tell me."

"That's Veronica Hurt. From 'Teenagers on the Edge!'"

"You watched that bullshit?"

"Hey! I had to live through somebody in high school, ok? Give me a break."

Seeing Veronica had sobered me right up. I had to talk to her.

"That guy she's with…is he an actor too?" Chelsea asked, obviously liking what she saw.

"I have no idea. Come on!" I said, walking quickly towards Veronica.

I was about to live out every single last one of my high school fantasies.

She and the pretty boy were still laughing, but I couldn't tell if it was the kind of laugh a girl gives her best guy friend or the kind of laugh a girl uses with a guy she wants to sleep with. Either way, I had alcohol lubricating my desire to live in the present and there was no turning back. I was only a couple feet away from the table.

"I love you."

Ok, so that's not what I had planned to say on the walk over, but apparently the liquor had other plans, because that's exactly what I said as I slammed both hands down on Veronica's table.

I'm an asshole.

"You love me?" she said, smiling smugly, "have we met because I think I might love you too."

She wasn't subtle about giving me the once-over. Here eyes connected with every part of my barely clothed body before they rested on my eyes again. I was _so_ going to score with an actress!

"No, we haven't met. But I watched your show."

She nodded, her eyes slightly glazed. She was just as drunk as I was. The most attractive quality in a woman when you're horny and intoxicated.

"Did you like it?"

"I'm a big fan."

"I'm Chelsea!"

Suddenly there was a hand thrust between us as Chelsea grabbed Veronica's and shook it hard. But her eyes were on the man candy.

"Yeah, sorry. That's my friend Chelsea. And I'm Spencer."

"I'm Ashley—but I'm sure you already know that—and that's Tiger Beat."

"Aiden, actually," he said, correcting Veronica…I mean, _Ashley_.

I needed to remember her real name. You know, in case I wanted to scream it later.

"Well, Spencer," she said, gesturing for us both to take the two remaining seats, "can we buy you two a drink?"

I nodded.

Did I mention I was going to fuck an actress?


	4. Chapter 4

**Ashley**:

Oh, yes, my friends.

Life is good.

There I was in the middle of the crowded dance floor in the middle of the crowded club using all five years of the dance classes I took in case I was ever moved to do a musical.

You know, it happens.

But I was alone? No. Not at all.

In front of me—and sometimes behind me—and sometimes sort of on top of me if that's even possible, was a gorgeous blonde whose name I couldn't quite remember all the time. But that's not important, is it? What's in a name, really? Would a rose by any other name still get wasted and grind her ass into me while screaming the lyrics of mindless pop music?

God, I hope so.

And luckily this gorgeous blonde had a friend so I didn't even have to worry about Aiden, who usually clung to me like a five year-old on their first day of kindergarten. I mean, this guy is gorgeous. He's done runway modeling for the past two years in places like Paris and Milan and graced those homoerotic covers of Abercrombie and still the guy's terrified of girls. Like, really terrified.

But as I struggled with my urge to just fuck this extraordinary blonde right there in front of everyone, Aiden was dancing sweetly with his own gorgeous new friend. I was proud of the guy. I mean, I would have been prouder if he didn't look like he was at the junior high spring dance, but baby steps. You know, it's all about the baby steps.

"I need another drink," the blonde said, leaning in to whisper the words directly in my ear, "do you want anything?"

But she was already walking towards the bar.

"Spencer! I'll come with you!" her friend said, following quickly behind her.

Ah, that's right. Spencer.

"I like her, dude. Like, a lot," Aiden said with an excited smile.

"What's her name?"

"Chelsea, and she's amazing."

"Are you going to fuck her or what?" I ask as I walk over to our table.

"Ash! For Christ's sake! Why do you have to be like that? Why do you have to be so vulgar?"

"Because you're not going to marry the girl, ok? You don't even know her. Not to mention the fact that both of these chicks are wasted, and you know what, Tiger Beat? So are we."

"I know, but when you get a vibe you get a vibe. And I'm telling you, I've got one from her."

"Boner. That's what you've got from her, kid. A boner. And if I was you, I'd make good use of it tonight."

"So does that mean you're going to try to sleep with Spencer?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course I am. Why else would I be dancing with her?"

"I don't know. For fun? To get to know her maybe?"

"Whatever. I need another drink."

"You might want to ease up on the alcohol a little, Ash."

"I'll be fine."

Two hours later standing up had become an issue. Like, a seriously challenging, Olympics-worthy feat. And there she was, propping me up. Barely standing herself, but propping me up nonetheless.

"Ashley, you have to tell me where your room is, ok?" she said as we tumbled out of the elevator.

"Where's Aiden? He knows where it is."

"Aiden's with Chelsea, remember?"

"Who the fuck is Chelsea?"

"My friend…the one who was making out with your friend?"

"Oh, Chelsea."

"You remember. Good. That must mean you're sobering up, huh?"

"Absolutely."

She must've thought that meant I was ok to stand because suddenly she was no longer holding me up and I was getting to know the floor a lot better.

She looked down at me, smiling. And if I was the kind of girl willing to let a chick walk around my apartment in my favorite hoodie, or the kind of girl who lets a chick drag her over to the 'burbs to meet her parents, or a girl who actually needed a chick, period…then maybe that smile would've melted my heart a little bit. But I wasn't that girl and the smile was simply nice.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm awesome. No, no, no! I'm stupendous!"

She helped me stand up and then reached for my purse.

"Do you think you put your card key in here?"

"I have no idea."

"Alright, well…"

She rifled through my purse, raising her eyebrows at mystery items. Probably my collection of pocket rockets or you know, my semi-realistic dildo and cherry-scented lube.

It's a big purse, ok?

"Here we go," she said, whipping out the key, "room 237, you ready?"

We odd-coupled it down the hall, tripping and stumbling. I can admit, it was mostly my fault. But keep in mind she had downed a few herself. And when I say a few, I mean like a zillion.

But before we made it, I had an idea. A terrible, horrible, miserable idea. Because this girl would look so, _so_ good in my favorite hoodie and because the alcohol was beginning to send me to that euphoric land where all ideas are perhaps great ideas.

"Spencer, wait."

"What?"

"I think we should do something first."

**Spencer**:

I felt the sun before I actually saw it. And I saw it before I actually realized where I was. I whipped my head around, searching for some context clues.

How much alcohol had I consumed exactly? Where was I? Where was Chelsea?

I didn't panic. It's not in my nature.

Ok, fine. It is.

But instead I took a deep breath—the kind they talk about in all of my yoga DVD's—and I gathered my bearings. Everything was going to be fine.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And that's when I felt the weight of it on my finger.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said a voice, as Veronica Hurt emerged from the bathroom.

Ok, see? I was obviously dreaming. Why would a fictional television character be in this mysterious room with me? That scenario has "dream" written all over it.

"Listen, we have to get this shit annulled like immediately. I have a final audition this afternoon so I can't do it today. Where do you live, by the way?"

I was wondering if I should speak and why I couldn't seem to wake myself up and if maybe—just maybe—I should stop drinking when I'm depressed. But that thought alone depressed me even more.

"Hello? What is this? You can't talk all of a sudden? Because last night I couldn't shut you up."

"You're Veronica Hurt, right?"

She sighed loudly, "Ashley Davies, actually. I played a character named Veronica Hurt, but guess what? I'm not her! Get it? We're two different people."

"I'm dreaming," I said, trying to re-live the moment where I actually thought this was true. Because the reality was just a little too much for me to handle with a hangover.

"No, this is really happening. Trust me. It doesn't exactly thrill me either. But somehow we got married last night and now we have to deal with it."

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly very, very nauseated.

"Which part confused you?"

"There's no way. I would never do that. I would never marry a stranger."

"Well you did, ok? Where do you live?"

"No, no, no, no!" I yelled, the realization beginning to sink in, "this cannot be happening to me!"

"Calm down, blondie. We'll get the shit annulled tomorrow and then it's like it never happened."

I jumped out of the bed, feeling those tiny tremors that always served as my signal that a major panic attack was on its way.

"Like it never happened? Like it never happened?! Are you a complete fucking idiot? For the rest of my life I have to know that I married some washed-up actress that I met in a hotel and knew for five hours!"

"I am not a washed-up actress! As I mentioned, I have an audition today. And you know what? I'm going to land this job."

I had found her insecurity. Good.

"Whatever. This has to be taken care of today."

"No can do. I'm not missing that audition."

"I'm not going to spend this entire day as your wife, Davies. It's not happening."

"Where do you live?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because I obviously want an answer!"

"The Bay Area…San Francisco."

She smirked, "Me too."

I frowned, "Ah, just perfect. I can see it now, 'Hey everyone, look over there. See that girl? Yeah? Well I used to be married to her!' Fucking great. This just keeps getting more and more rich."

"I love the way you act as though I'm happy about this. You think you're the only one upset? News flash. You're not."

"May I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Promise you won't get offended or anything."

"Fine, whatever. Ask the question, already."

"Did you drug me?"

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

"Because if you did I just want to know now. Maybe I won't even press charges."

No, I was totally going to press charges.

"You're amazing, you know that? How do I know you didn't drug me? Huh?"

"Do I look like the kind of girl who would have access to drugs?"

She shook her head and walked back in the bathroom, laughing and swearing under her breath.

And then like a hymn from the angels came the sounds of Blondie's "Call Me."

My cell phone.

"Real cute," Ashley mused from the bathroom, "I can tell you're totally creative."

Fuck her. I was dripping with creativity. Creativity was my middle name.

Ok, fine. It's "Michelle."

I found my cell phone on a chair across the room.

"Hello?" I said, not even bothering to check the caller I.D.

"Spencer! I've been trying to reach you for hours. Are you ok?"

Chelsea. Thank God.

"Yeah…well, no. But yeah."

"What?"

"I'll tell you later. Where are you?"

"Waiting downstairs in the lobby."

"I'll be down in a few."

"Ok."

I hung up the phone and pulled my discarded dress on over my still intact bra and panties.

"I'm leaving," I yelled to Ashley, "I left my business card on the bed with my cell number on the back. Call me. If you don't then I will track you down."

"Trust me. You'll get a call," she yelled back.

And with that, I opened the door and walked out of the room.

What the hell had I done?


	5. Chapter 5

**ASHLEY**:

"You did what?!"

"Calm down, dude. This shit happens everyday. To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised it hasn't happened to me before now. I mean, especially since I'm fucking hot."

Aiden stared at me. Mouth agape. Eyes wide. Hair perfect.

Oh yeah, like he had never gotten drunk and then married.

Pussy.

"Ok, wait. It was Spencer that you married, right? Not someone else?"

"Nah, it was Spencer. The blonde with the epic tits and the killer voice."

"Wait a minute. Do you like, actually like her?"

"What? Because I think she has a nice pair and a sexy voice? No way, T.G. If that was all it took I'd have lost my virginity to Ursula from 'The Little Mermaid.'"

"Wow. Alright, so you're married. Now what?"

"We both live in the Bay, so we'll handle all the annulment stuff up there and then it's done."

"And then it's done?"

"Done, dude."

"What about the audition? How did that go?" he asked, pushing the rest of his steak around his plate with a fork. That guy never finished a meal. It was like being best friends with an Olsen twin.

"I'll put it this way. This dinner's on me, Tiger Beat."

"Seriously? You got it?"

I nodded, smiling like an idiot, "You know it."

"Ash, that's awesome! I'm so proud of you," he exclaimed, reaching across the table to hug me.

"Alright, alright, alright! Take it down a notch, Oprah. It's just a job."

Both we knew it wasn't just a job. This was a forty-eight minute-a-week drama where I could finally show off my acting chops. I had been waiting a long time for an opportunity like this, and now here it was.

Finally.

"Fine. But I'm happy for you. I hope you know that."

"I do."

"Good. Now if you don't mind me saying, you're absolutely screwed."

Whoa, what?

"Great. You want to tell me why?"

"Spencer."

"I seriously don't want to hear that name right now. We're supposed to be celebrating my success, remember?"

"Ah, already avoiding talking about the ol' ball and chain, huh?" he laughed, "that's hilarious."

"I'm not laughing."

"Of course not. Because you got drunk off your ass and then made of the biggest mistakes a drunk person can make. I wouldn't be laughing either."

"It's not a big deal! This whole thing will be over in a couple days and then it'll be like it never happened. Stop being such a dick, dude. Jeez…"

"Whatever. So are you going to ask me about my night or what?"

"How was your night?" I murmured between bites of my salad.

I'm on a diet, alright? I'm an actress. Dieting is a fucking hobby.

"Chelsea is amazing."

"You said that last night at the bar."

"Yeah, well…I was assuming then. Now it's confirmed."

"Gotcha. So she was good in bed?"

Aiden sighed and rolled his eyes, "Seriously, Ash?"

"What?"

"Anyway, she's smart, she's funny, she's an artist…and her favorite show is 'Blind Date' so she's practically perfect."

"Yeah, sounds like a winner."

"Say what you want, but this one's a keeper."

Pussy.

His face was lit up like he was the "after" picture in a Proactiv ad. It was fucking pathetic how whipped this guy could get.

"Well if she's best friends with that Spencer chick…"

"You mean, the one you're married to?"

"If she's best friends with that Spencer chick then she's a bitch. I'd get out while you still can."

"Be nice. I like her."

"Really? It's been one fucking day and you're going all 'defensive boyfriend' on me? Not cool, man. Egos before ho's."

"You're a real poet, Ash."

"I know. It's all the Shakespearean monologues. It's made me all sensitive and shit."

Aiden raised his perfectly manicured eyebrows at me.

"Fine! If you like her, that's great. Good luck," I said, seeing in his eyes that he wanted my stamp of approval. He didn't get it often.

No one did.

But every once in awhile, I gave the guy a little encouragement. We were best friends, after all.

"You know what this means though, right?"

"No threesomes."

"No, it means that annulment or not, Spencer kind of stays in the picture. I mean, they're friends. And if I'm dating Chelsea then…"

"This isn't a sorority. I don't have to hang out with your girlfriend's friend's sister's cousin's aunt, ok? There's no sisterhood."

"But if there's like a party or something…ok, like let's say that Chelsea and I have a dinner party and you're both invited, then what?"

"A dinner party? Really? So in this scenario do you now have a vagina?"

"It's a hypothetical."

"Uh-huh. Well then we'd both go to your vagina party and make nice. No scenes, no drama. You know I hate drama."

"Only people who are surrounded by drama say they hate drama, Ash."

"You might be right about that, actually. But still, I wouldn't be you know…"

"You wouldn't be your usual brand of nice?"

"Yeah, I'd be ugly people's version of nice."

"That's just…super."

"What? I'm trying, ok?"

"I know."

"Alright, then cut me some slack."

"I'm just worried about you, that's all. I wish you knew how serious this actually is."

"How serious what is?"

"You're married, Ashley! And no matter how quickly it's over, it happened."

"Trust me, I know."

"No you don't! Because last night you were drunk, yeah. But you also saw something in someone for the first time ever that made you want to stick around. I mean, you were immovable before we got here and there were a lot of parties and bars and bottles and you never went and got married. So something was different, and you're kidding yourself if you don't think there was."

"Aiden, look at me," I said, treating the moment just as seriously as he was, "I know. I know, ok? But it was a mistake. You should've seen us today. The connection that was there last night doesn't exist without the alcohol. It just doesn't."

"And you don't think that's because you two were in shock? I mean, you did get married last night."

"Who knows? Either way, it doesn't matter. She's not into it and neither am I. And it's ok. You know, maybe one day but…"

"You never know, Ashley."

"Sometimes you do, buddy."

"Well…I'm sorry."

"No need to be. I'm happy. Still single, still totally hot, and now I'm an employed actress. It doesn't get any better than this."

"Hey, then good for you."

"Hell yeah."

"Then good."

"Fantastic."

"You want another drink?"

"Absolutely."

The next morning, Aiden and I made the drive back. Since he wasn't married, he was significantly less hungover so he took the wheel and I took the Tylenol. It created a harmonious balance that took us all the way back to San Francisco.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked as he pulled up in front of my apartment.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't live here anymore. And despite the fact that I'm in love with it, this is _your_ Porsche."

"Oh, that's right. You moved, huh?"

"I did."

"Come up for awhile and I'll drive you back tonight."

"Cool."

We got out of the car, both walking towards the trunk when I heard a somewhat familiar voice.

"You didn't call."

She was leaning on a convertible Saab parked a few feet away, an infuriating smirk on her face.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, staring at her like the mirage I was hoping she was.

How hungover was I exactly?

"What? You're not going to invite me in…carry me over the threshold?"

"How did you even find me?"

"Google"

"Google?"

"It's not hard. Not only that, but apparently my company did work on your apartment a couple years ago. What are the odds, huh?" she said with a shrug, "anyway, we need to talk."

"About what?"

"I need to get this thing nixed tomorrow. It can't wait."

I couldn't believe it. All I wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch my stack of Netflix suggestions. Now I had to deal with the insane Ice Queen Barbie and my own Malibu Ken, who looked pleased that this was all going down in his presence.

"Fine, come in," I said with a sigh.

This was just not my day.


	6. Chapter 6

**SPENCER**:

Her apartment looked like something out of a nightmare, and though she tried to explain it away—the tall, idiotic one with the penis had just moved out—I knew it was because her life was in chaos.

That's not exactly a judgment, people. But don't you find that ingrates who allow their living space to become cluttered and untidy have minds and lives that are also cluttered and untidy? It's just a scientific fact. And why do I call them ingrates? Well because God gave us this remarkable gift of organizational skills. It was God's plan all along for the world to be alphabetized and color-coded. I think it might even be written in the Bible. Not that I would know these days.

But despite her chaotic habitat, she was nice enough to offer me a beer—never drinking again, thanks—and a seat on the surprisingly posh couch.

"So, wife, to what do I owe the pleasure of your sweet presence?" she asked as she fell into the recliner across from me, a fake smile plastered on her face.

How could I have ever masturbated to pictures of this girl in high school?

"I have a friend who's a lawyer…"

"That sounds about right."

I glared at her before continuing, "I have a friend who's a lawyer and she says this shit isn't as easy or cheap as one would think. And it's not as easy as I had hoped it would be to get your annulment approved by a judge."

"Why?"

"Well under our circumstances, we have to prove that we were intoxicated beyond reason."

"We're fucking married! I would say we were intoxicated beyond reason!" she screamed.

She talked with her hands a lot when she was frustrated. It showed me she was probably harboring some buried insanity. Perhaps she was even capable of serial murder.

"I understand that, Ver-Ashley, but we have to prove it. Do you remember the details of that night?"

"Here and there."

"Then that doesn't help us."

"Do you remember them?"

"It's fuzzy, but it's there."

"Who cares? It's not like we have to tell the truth about it. We both just say we were buzzed out of our fucking heads, man. Let the all-knowing legal guy behind the podium sort out the pieces and go have ourselves a nice lunch…separately of course."

"It's not called a podium."

"Fine, whatever it's called."

"What you're thinking of is called a lectern and it's not one of those either."

"Are you some kind of woodworker or something? Who the fuck cares what it's called?"

I shrugged, "I bet you would correct someone if it was some kind of stupid acting terminology. And don't even deny it, because I'm sure you get your thrills by being a hypocritical know-it-all."

Model boy sat there through all of it with a rather adorable smile on his face. And when I say adorable, I mean immature and sociopathic.

"Alright, so tell me what your solution is, Miss Perfect, because I know you have one," Ashley said, challenging me when the eyes I used to think were the most amazing on the planet.

No wonder people say television is bad for you.

"So this is what we have to do," I say, sliding forward, "I'm going to file for the dissolution tomorrow. We'll be called in to court—I have no idea how long that takes—and then you don't protest when they ask if you agree to the dissolution. Usually that's enough."

"Usually?"

"Yeah, usually. But like I said, it's really the judge's call."

"That's just great. Aiden, can you get me a beer please? Oooh, or an entire bottle of vodka? There's some in the freezer."

He didn't move.

"Or there's another option," I say with a smile.

"Pray tell, princess."

"You can get an annulment based on the grounds that one party was unable to consummate the marriage."

"Uh-huh…"

"I don't know if in all that 'here and there' you remember passing out on the floor of your hotel room, but I'm pretty sure you don't get consummation points for asking me to take off my shirt and then falling asleep in a puddle of spilled beer."

"Oh yeah, 'cause it was a real turn-on when you declared yourself 'the best top in California' and then serenaded me with your own horrendous version of 'Mambo #5.'"

"Sounds like you remember more than you thought, ladies," Aiden said from his chair across the room.

I swear to God, if he would've said one more thing, pepper spray to the eyes would've been something else for him to model.

Pussy.

"Look," I said, standing up to leave, "I'll be in contact with you. And in case you don't realize it, I know where you live. Just try not showing up when we get called to court and you'll be having a lifetime worth of little blonde nightmares, k?"

"I already did. You're in serious need of a bikini wax, my friend. I'd get that handled."

I could've killed her, but I like to consider myself a woman of class. So instead I smiled tightly and walked out with my head held high. I wasn't going to let this low-brow actress get the best of me. I was the bigger person. The adult.

I would simply edit her wikipedia page.

Ah, revenge is sweet.

I drove to my downtown loft blasting my Beethoven/Wagner playlist and wondering how the hell I had let my rational slip long enough to let something like this happen. It didn't make sense. This wasn't who I was. And she…

God.

She was the worst possible version of a human that I could imagine. Everything I hated. Everything wrong with the dating pool. That's why Carmen and I were so perfect together—despite what Chelsea thought. She was just like me.

People, she and I would sit down on a Sunday night and schedule our weeks together down to the hour. Down to how long we'd be in the shower or what we were eating for every meal. It was so romantic. That's what love is supposed to be.

Mutual organization and planning so that you can have a future together without the fear of surprises. We were ready for any "spontaneous" mishap.

It was beautiful.

So why wasn't that good enough for her anymore? Where had the plan gone awry? It didn't make sense. It didn't make logical fucking sense.

Nonsense, see? Nonsense is what it was.

I arrived at my loft just in time to see Chelsea locking my door. She had a key in case I ever went on a business trip and needed someone to check on my goldfish. I mean, don't get me wrong. I had the automatic cleaner and feeder, but I feel like fish need to be stared at through the glass for awhile in order to survive their longest. They like being observed. Trust me.

"Chels…what's up?" I asked, cutting the engine and hopping out of my car.

"You packed some of my clothes and stuff in your suitcase. I thought I'd let myself in and find them and be gone before you came back…you know, in case you wanted to be alone to think about your…your…your marriage," she said, finally exploding in laughter.

"Glad to see the biggest mistake of my life is fodder for your day, Chelsea. Yes, please enjoy my hideously disheveled life while I cry."

"It's going to be fine."

"Yeah? Because I just left her apartment."

"You were at her apartment?"

Two hours later I was lying sitting on a barstool at my kitchen counter eating take-out with Chelsea, recounting every last detail of my conversation with Ashley.

"Wow, she's pretty funny, actually," Chelsea said, using her chopsticks to shovel vegetable chow fun into her mouth, "like you."

"No, we're nothing alike!"

Gross.

"Was Aiden there?"

"Indeed."

"How did he look? Did he mention me?"

"He looked like he was made of golden plastic and no, he didn't mention you."

"Dammit."

"What do you two have in common anyway? He's a dumb model whose idea of a gift is a gym membership and you're a thoughtful artist with a collection of African fertility masks. I don't get it," I said between spoonfuls of hot and sour soup.

"That's the beauty of it, Spence. We're both bringing something completely different to the table. I know things he doesn't. He knows things I don't know…"

"What, like the phone number for 'Hooked on Phonics?'"

"Shut up! He's interesting. I like getting to know the things that make him tick. That night at the hotel we just stayed awake for hours talking about our lives and what we want and how we…"

"Did you make plans for when you got back?"

"No, he has my number. I have his. We'll play it by ear."

"See, that's bullshit! Why go through all the anxiety when you can have a plan for the next time you'll see each other that lays out who's supposed to call whom and where you'll meet and what you'll do?"

"Because that's rigid and boring. Some of the best dates I've ever had have been the ones where there was no plan at all. We just walked through the city or happened upon a cool thrift store or hit up an exhibit that we saw advertised on the street. It's all about being together and enjoying the possibilities of freedom."

"Wow, thanks Kerouac. That was really something."

She sighed at me—as usual—and smiled, "One day you'll get it. You'll learn to appreciate what it feels like to be out of control…to be out of your comfort zone where anything can happen."

"Oh yeah? I'm not sure if you recall, Chelsea, but I'm married! So been there, done that, going to court."

"Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe you should give it a shot."

"I'd rather _be_ shot."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"But obviously this whole _control_ thing is working out for you, Spence, because you can still see the skid marks Carmen left on your precious imported tile."

Say what?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you probably scared the poor girl with all of your pie charts and Power Points about your wedding. She probably could see a glimpse of what a life with you would be like and didn't like what she saw so she ran."

"Nice. Way to kick me while I'm down."

"It's my job as your best friend to let you know when you're fucking up your life. And I happen to take that job pretty seriously."

"Carmen left because she wasn't ready for a commitment."

"Carmen left because with you commitment means boredom."

"I'm not boring."

"Whatever you say."

"Hey, I can have fun, ok? I can be exciting!"

"I'll call you this week about hanging out," she said, grabbing her purse and heading towards the door.

Since when did it become so cool to walk out on me while I was trying to make a point?

"Fine, call me," I yelled from my stool, "I'll have my secretary let you know when I'm free."

I could hear her trademark sigh before the door slammed.


	7. Chapter 7

**ASHLEY**:

(Three Weeks Later)

Finally, finally, finally, finally.

Finally.

I swear to God this broad had left over ten-million messages on my phone threatening to "skin me alive" and "torture me in this life and the next" if I missed this hearing. As if I wanted to wake up every morning with an inbox full of death threats.

That's not the way I like to start my day, ok?

I prefer a big mug of coffee, an hour of cartoons, a bagel with two pieces of vegan bacon, and a hug—from my vibrator.

But lately it was more like a marathon of angry Spencer voicemails and perfectly spelled, perfectly punctuated text messages. No smiley faces. No hearts. Just pure, unjustified venom and the occasional "please" or "thank you." Though I'd been doubting the sincerity of those salutations.

But finally after three weeks, I could go back to masturbating in peace because some judge was about to let me out of this mess. That is, if I didn't fall asleep through all this pretentious "all rise for the honorable blah…blah…blah" and the "this is case number blah…blah…blah on the docket blah…blah…please take your blah…blah…blah." All I needed for this dude to do was get to the part where he says, "Ashley Davies, you are now free to go and live your life without this blonde bitch's abrasive messages. Also, you're pretty fucking hot. Court is adjourned."

That's what I needed to hear. Then I could put Spencer Carlin and that giant mistake of a night behind me and concentrate on my new job and the meaningless groupie sex that went along with it. You know. The same sex that I had been going without for the past three weeks.

Yeah that's right. I know how to use "Google" too and so I looked up this legal stuff. Turns out if you cheat on your wife—even if she's a bitch and a bad decision—then you could end up paying alimony or some shit.

I know what you're thinking.

How would she know if you were cheating on her?

She just would. I can't explain it, guys. She just would. She somehow knew to call every single time I was about to go out to the bar or call up an old "friend" for a night of fun or even put new batteries in my vibrator.

She's a witch. I married a witch.

But not a nice one. This was no Melissa-Joan Hart. This was like, Bette Midler from "Hocus Pocus."

Ruthless.

So I'm kind of tuning this Judge Wilson out, when all of a sudden I happen to catch a glimpse of Spencer's face. And it's contorted into this horrible expression of fear and disgust and…I mean, that could just be her regular face. I've been pretty drunk every time I've seen her. But it looked serious so I tuned the guy in and…

"There's a lesson that needs to be learned here. People have fought for this right that you two so carelessly trampled over and I'm not going to let you go unpunished for that carelessness. You'll stay in this marriage for two months and during that two months you will undergo couple's therapy with a court-appointed psychologist. After that two months if he or she decides that you gave it your best efforts then you can choose to stay married or I will grant you your annulment. Of course, in order to experience the actual ups and downs of married life I'm asking that you share a household and make an honest attempt to get to know one another and make the best of this condition that I'm bringing forth today. Marriage is hard. But more than anything, it's a privilege. Hopefully you'll see that in the months to come. I will see you in two months. That's all. Court is adjourned."

Um…excuse me? Where the fuck was Judge Judy when you needed her? Anyone else find her kind of sexy?

I was in complete and utter shock. Seeing stars. A-List stars in fact. Like Meryl and and DeNiro and Judi Dench and shit.

The banging of the gavel is what broke me of my trance. I just watched the guy as he ruined my life with each word. I looked at Aiden, who sat behind me and even he appeared to be lost. It was a typical face for the dude, but still…

I even ventured a glance at Spencer, who remained frozen behind the podium. Or lectern, I guess.

Whatever.

The bitch was frozen. Like, even more so than usual. And for a single fleeting moment, I felt sorry for her. I was used to general disorder in my life. A surprise or two. A consequence—usually in the form of a rash. But this chick was a fucking Stepford wife and I don't imagine a single minute of her life had been in the hands of fate. Unless "Fate" was the name of her secretary.

No wait. Her secretary's name was Beth. She had called me to remind me about the hearing.

"Ash, I don't know what to say," Aiden said as he grabbed my hand and we walked out of the courtroom.

"I'm pretty speechless myself here, Tiger Beat."

"Are you going to be ok? Should you just stay at my place a couple days and relax? I'll buy vegan bacon," he said with a smile.

I loved this guy sometimes.

"I don't think I can. I mean, you heard the dude. I'm supposed to live with Spencer."

The thought alone shivered me to the core. I pictured calendars everywhere and laundry divided by colors.

"Ashley, we need to talk."

She stood a few feet behind me next to that Chelsea girl Aiden's so in love with. The four of us faced off, Tiger Beat and Chelsea smiling at each other like idiots—selfish bastards—and Spencer and I frowning at each other like fourth-grade arch enemies.

Quite a foursome.

Eww…

"Don't you think I know that?" I mumbled, afraid to look at her by mistake and catch blue daggers to the eye.

"Look, I have a job. I have a life. I have things to do. We need to make this as simple as possible."

"Fine. Whatever."

"It would be a lot easier if you would move into my place…"

"No can do, princess."

"Why?" she asked, the venom creeping back into her voice.

"Because living with you is going to be bad enough. I refuse to do it in a place filled with lavender-scented candles, white towels, and back issues of 'Cosmo.'"

Chelsea stifled a laugh, "That's a pretty good assessment actually."

Spencer glared at her, "Well I can't live in a frat house."

"What's that even mean?"

"Your apartment looks like it was decorated by the boys at Sigma Phi."

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Ladies, come on. Can't we do this somewhere else?" Aiden asked.

"Better yet, let's all go out and have an early dinner or something!" Chelsea chimed in.

I hated them both in that moment. More than I hate marathons of "CSI: New York."

"I have to go back to work, ok? Some of us aren't actresses or artists or models. Some of us have grown-up jobs," Spencer said, in a voice dripping with condescension, "this thing is effective as of tomorrow, and I don't want to screw this up and have to start again. Or worse yet, miss the last day for an annulment and have to go through an actual divorce. I will not—I repeat, _will not_ be a divorcee. I'd rather die."

"Is that an option?" I reply with a smile, but to be honest I was a little frightened of her so I quickly moved on, "alright, I will clean my apartment. I'll fix up Aiden's old room and maybe even get a magazine subscription or seven. You'll feel right at home."

"I need my own key. I work long hours."

"Done."

"Good, then I'll see you tomorrow. Be ready to get off your ass and help, ok? Because I'm not a light packer."

"I'll help," Aiden said, like the Disney prince he was.

Spencer looked at him, then at me before letting out a frustrated sigh and heading out of the glass doors.

Chelsea linked arms with Aiden before offering me what I'm sure she thought was an encouraging smile, "She doesn't really respond well to surprises."

"No shit."

**SPENCER**:

Must…

Not…

Panic.

It's bad for your skin.

Must…

Not…

But who was I kidding? I was on the verge of a meltdown that Britney Spears would envy. A meltdown of epic proportions.

I was going to do it.

I was going to…

"Can I get a number four please? With a Mountain Dew?"

McDonald's.

I had been reduced to emotional eating by Veronica Hurt. Who knew what was next?

"Drive up to the window, please."

I maneuvered my Saab around the curb and to the window while fumbling with my iPod. I needed aggressive, angry music to fuel my ride back to work. I needed something with roaring bass and soaring guitar licks. I needed…

Neil Diamond.

No one felt my pain like Neil.

Why was there more than one window? I handed over my money and drove to the second window for my carbs.

"Here," an eighteen year-old "Avatar" enthusiast said rudely as he practically threw my food at me.

Unfortunately for him, he didn't know he was dealing with a woman who had just been denied an annulment to a former teen star.

"Listen, kid. I'm sure you think you're awesome and you probably get a perverse little power kick from abusing women you couldn't fuck in a million years with bags of over-salted food. But the truth is, buddy. This is it for you. Your glory days. Your prime. Working here and then going home to masturbate to thoughts of dominating me in your parent's basement. But fantasy and reality never, ever mix, you little D&D freak so you can stop kidding yourself. I'd rather fuck your mom—who I've never met, but from what I'm seeing of you, isn't too hot—with a giant dildo while your dad watches than lay a finger on your three-inch dick. So next time a hot blonde drives up to your window, I'm going to suggest that you be nice to her and hand her the food she fucking paid for and perhaps say 'thank you' or 'come again' extra fucking sweet so that just maybe she seeks you out for a pity fuck the night her real boyfriend from the football team cheats on her again. Ok? Have a nice fucking day, you loser fuck," I said before zooming off.

A new low.

Harassing children.

Thanks a lot, Veronica Hurt.


	8. Chapter 8

**ASHLEY**:

I couldn't sleep.

Me.

The girl who could doze off in the middle of the Victoria Secret Fashion show _and _particularly bad sex was absolutely wide-awake.

It was pathetic.

It was unacceptable.

It was all her fault.

She had arrived at five in the morning with seven or eight suitcases and maybe five cardboard boxes full of crap. I didn't even ask what was in them, though I had guessed five or so one-hundred pound bags of potpourri. I simply helped her bring them up the stairs, wishing Aiden was around so he could undress, cover himself in baby oil, and do the heavy lifting. But no. He was with Chelsea, and more than likely they had fallen asleep after a vigorous game of "What Should We Name Our Children."

Spencer and I didn't say a lot to each other then. I was way too tired to endure her judgments and criticisms, and when we were done I showed her Aiden's old room and hurried back to my warm bed.

But now I could hear her in the apartment, banging things and moving shit around. Needless to say, I could only sleep through so much. So I journeyed out into the living room to find some sort of strange room I had never seen before. Had I gone into the wrong apartment? Because I didn't remember owning so many candles. And I certainly didn't remember having any…dare I even say it?

Plants.

She stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips. She was obviously too busy contemplating what else she could screw up in my apartment to hear me come out of my bedroom.

"Spencer," I said quietly, so as not to startle her, "what the hell is all this?"

"All of what?" she asked innocently.

"All this shit you stole from Carrie Bradshaw."

"Oh, this stuff?" she said gesturing towards the magazines, candles, lamps, and—dear God—bookends.

"Yeah."

"I'm just making myself feel at home. I mean, you didn't think I would just move into your apartment and inconvenience myself without bringing my own personal touches, did you?"

"I should've assumed you'd bring some things. I just didn't know my apartment would transform into a fucking Crate and Barrel catalog."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Ashley."

And there was that smile again. I hated it.

"Look, can we please be reasonable?"

"What do you mean?"

"This is still my apartment, princess! I still get the final say in what shit goes where and how many candles go on my coffee table!"

"Oh, then you're saying we should move into my loft?"

"No, we're staying here."

"Good, then the stuff stays. It's called compromise, sweetheart. You'll get used to it."

I wanted to duct-tape her fucking mouth shut. Now _that_ was something I could get used to.

That smile.

That voice.

How had I at one time found that voice so attractive?

"Whatever. If that's the way you want to play this, Spencer, I can play it that way. I can make this hell for you."

She made a pouty face, "Aww, is someone used to getting her way because she used to be semi-famous? That's too bad."

No one had ever made me this angry before. My hands formed fists. My face was hot. I couldn't do this. There was no way I could live with her.

But then it hit me like a bolt of lightening. It was a jolt of wisdom right to the dome. If I was the one to screw up this trial marriage then she'd get alimony. No wonder the fake smiles and the unusually composed nature. Oh yeah, it was all becoming crystal fucking clear. She could not only get out of this marriage, but she could make me pay for the fact that she was ever in it to begin with.

But if she could do that, then so could I. This was a two-way street. A two-way street that was beginning to look a lot like a challenge.

"You're right. You're absolutely right. You're welcome to decorate any way you see fit. I'm going back to bed."

She looked shocked, but quickly composed herself, offering me a nod and a tight smile as I returned to my room.

Let the games begin, princess.

**"Ashley, I won't do it!"**

"Why?" I whine as I lean into his front door.

"Because it's ridiculous, first of all. Second of all, it's dangerous. Third of all…no."

"You're a bad friend. All these years we've known each other and you won't do me this one little favor? If I had known four years ago when I rear-ended your car in traffic that you would turn out to be such a fucking asshole, I would've just driven off. But no, what did I do, Aiden? What kind of citizen was I? The kind that stops and gives you my insurance information before driving off. You know what they call that, my friend…or should I say _ex_-friend? They call that having scruples. I have scruples, ok?"

"You wrote it on my windshield in bright red lipstick after calling me a 'cock face!' What does that even mean? How does a person even have a 'cock face?'"

I shake my head, "You're an asshole, dude."

"I'm an asshole because I won't help you burn down your apartment?"

My brilliant new plan was to convince the court that Spencer was an arsonist. It took me all morning to come up with it.

"It's one little favor!"

"No, Ashley! It's not. It's one little ten-year sentence in prison and I love you, but I'm not going to prison for you. Sorry, I'm just not."

"Oh, please. You'd fucking love prison. You'd be all about that shit. You'll go anywhere as long as they have Axe deodorant spray and reruns of 'America's Next Top Model' and you know it."

"I'm not burning down your apartment."

"You'd be so popular in prison, though! Your skin is so soft and your ass is so nice…"

"I'm closing the door now."

"Don't even get me started on your occasional dalliances with male makeup…"

"Goodbye, Ashley."

"Wait, wait, wait! I'm sorry. Look, she's going to set me up, Aiden. I just know it."

"Did you ask her about it or are you assuming as usual?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure she'd be super honest about trying to extort money from me. Good idea. This isn't 'To Catch a Predator,' Tiger Beat! This is real life and she's a dirty, dirty witch! Like a real one."

"Ash, can't we talk about this later?"

"Why are you trying to rush me? And why can't I come in?"

Suddenly I hear coughing from inside his apartment and everything starts adding up. That motherfucker…

"She's here, isn't she?"

He smiled sheepishly, "Maybe."

"Like you don't know for sure? You've forgotten somehow? Is she locked in the freezer or something? Are you some kind of weirdo, Aiden Dennison?"

"Ok, fine. She's here."

"So now that Chelsea's around I'm not allowed inside your apartment?" I ask, trying to push past him.

His man muscles blocked me though, so apparently they're good for more than masturbatory inspiration for gay guys.

"It's not that you're not allowed in…"

"Do I have to start paying a cover?"

"It's just that now that there's another woman in my life, I have to make time for the both of you."

"Uh-huh…"

"And that means that you and I can't spend every waking minute together. You're going to have to learn some autonomy."

"Big word for such an asshole."

"Don't be mad."

"Why wouldn't I be mad? Are you serious?"

"Because in a couple months you're going to be in L.A. for filming and I can't go with you. So you might as well start learning some independence now, you know? Let's start today."

"It's not Independence Day, Aiden. It's September 14th."

He frowned at me.

"Fine. Whatever. If you're comfortable with the fact that she's going to screw me out of my money then that's great. I hope you sleep like a fucking baby while I go panhandle to make my alimony payments."

"I'll have Chelsea here to tire me out," he replied with a smile, "so don't worry about me."

"Low blow, buddy. Low blow."

"I'll call you, ok?"

"Fine, but by then I might be hanging out with my new best friend—_Hayden_…um…_Venison_. So…watch out for that."

"Will do, Ash. See ya," he said before closing the door and leaving face to face with his apartment number.

What are friends for?

No seriously.

What are they for?


	9. Chapter 9

_**Hello, everyone! Now that you're all caught up with the chapters I had posted on other sites, I can check in and say hello and let you know a little more about me and this story. I responded to a challenge over on to do a Spash story based on "What Happens In Vegas." This is what I have so far. 9 chapters in...lots more to go. It's definitely got some more developing to do so settle in for a little while longer. I'd like to think I could be finishing it around late November. But we'll see...I've been writing South of Nowhere fan fiction for a long time...about three or four years and this is my 5th story. If you like what you're reading and you want links to some of the other ones, feel free to ask. Anyway, thanks for reading and thanks for the feedback thus far. I'm glad you like it, and without any further rambling from me...here we go:**_

**SPENCER**:

It doesn't make me a bad person, ok? I don't _enjoy_ making other people suffer. It's not a hobby of mine. However, when a former teen actress with slightly less star power than the cast of "California Dreams" forces a marriage upon me that I can't immediately get out of, someone has to pay, people. Someone has to feel my wrath—my lavender-scented, appropriately pillowed, IKEA-purchased wrath. That's not wrong.

It's simply necessary.

The money is a completely separate issue. I wasn't even sure yet if I wanted her money. More than that, I wanted to expedite the process. I wanted my freedom back. I wanted three or four more years alone to mourn the untimely death of my engagement. I wanted _my_ bed, and _my _space, and _my_ GE Chrome Electric Tea Kettle and matching Chrome Deluxe Induction Cooker. These are things that I needed in order to survive.

Anyway, she'd never figure it out. It's not like she was the brightest bulb in the pack. I doubt she was even up to reading chapter books, let alone her legal rights.

But I had to admit, it was strange the way she'd saunter around the living room as if she were trying to catch me in the middle of something. And sometimes when I'd walk by her in the hallway, I swear I could hear her mutter random things about witches and spells.

Very strange behavior, indeed.

And it only added to my theory that at some point in her life she had serially murdered people. Possibly witches.

"Spencer, what did you do with my coffee?" she asked as she knocked on my open bedroom door.

Was she referring to that shit she kept on the counter that was the consistency of dead ants?

"I threw it away."

"You threw it away?"

"I…" I said, pointing to myself, "threw…it…away. Got it?"

"Why would you do that? Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good grind on fair-trade, shade-grown coffee? I have this stuff shipped in from Seattle weekly!"

"It just goes to show how little you actually know about coffee, Davies. Because ground coffee is only at its best for a few hours. That's why I have a grinder that I bought from Italy, so I could grind my own beans every morning and enjoy the finest brew possible. I suggest you do the same and stop spending your money on shit I wouldn't serve to a compost bin. Speaking of which, I started one. So from now on make sure you throw your banana peels in the pink bin under the sink so we can try to save this planet."

"I don't even know where to start," she said, balling up her fists in what I could only assume was utter appreciation.

"That's strange, because you're usually so eloquent."

"First of all, people like you are what's wrong with this planet to begin with so it seems rather fitting that you would try to save it by throwing away perfectly good resources. Not only that, but it is not your place to touch anything in this apartment that belongs to me. I've kept my lighter away from those horrendous pillows you insisted upon using on the couch my father gave me, haven't I?"

"Ah, so you didn't buy that couch. It now makes perfect sense why it is actually of decent taste. Where's your father so I can thank him?"

"He's dead, actually. The couch was in his will."

"Oh," I said, swallowing back any other harsh words I might've said, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she said, shrugging, but I could see in her eyes that it wasn't, and for a second I almost wanted to comfort her.

"When did he die exactly? Were you close?"

I ask questions when things get awkward. It typically just makes them more awkward.

"Don't," she said, shaking her head, "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Ok. I completely understand."

"So anyway, we have therapy tonight and if I'm going to make it, I'm going to need some coffee."

"I know we have therapy. My secretary was the one that reminded you. You can use mine, but just this once."

"I wouldn't drink your coffee if it was made of sunshine, ok? I was just going to say that this means I have to stop by Peet's on the way and get a triple shot."

"How does that affect me?"

"Well I had assumed we were taking one car."

"Eww…never."

"Yeah, you're a real environmentalist there, Spence. See you in therapy," she said, walking down the hall. I could hear her grab her keys before the front door slammed shut.

This wasn't going very well…

**"Great, it's amazing," I said.**

"So good…yeah, perfect almost."

"Really?"

He totally wasn't buying it. And I had learned from a career of selling myself and my abilities to homeowners that there's a time to keep pressing onward and a time to just reel it right back…

"Oh yeah, it's like a gigantic bucket of joy has just been poured all over me. Or like, I've been hosed down with liquid happiness," Ashley said finishing us off with an over-the-top smile plastered on her lying little face.

…in. Reel it right in.

This therapist—no matter how terribly thick his Nickelodeon brand glasses were—was going to see right through us. We were absolutely, 100 fucked.

"I don't quite believe you."

"You don't?" she had the audacity to ask.

No, he's lying to us, Ashley. For funsies.

Idiot.

"No, I don't. You see, you two, when a real married couple comes in here they don't do this."

"They don't do what?"

"They don't mention being hosed down with anything, let alone happiness. They fight and they yell and they get their feelings out into the open. This way they can deal more honestly with their problems and learn how to face them together in the future. No one is happy all the time in their marriage. And that's ok."

"They're not?"

"Heavens no."

"Then what's the fucking point, man?" Ashley asked.

I was going to wring her neck the second this guy blinked a moment too long.

"Because when you're in love, even the fighting is good. There's passion in everything. Not just when it's all going your way."

This guy had it all wrong. Marriage was about finally being able to combine your assets with someone and planning for early retirement. Not about passion. You want passion? How about being able to retire on a beach in Fiji and eating nothing but passion_fruit_ and ham until you die of congestive heart failure in a medically incompetent healthcare system. How's that for passion?

Marriage is about having 1.5 children all with precocious tendencies that you help develop through providing them with as many lessons as possible and sending them to the nation's best schools. This is marriage, people. This was supposed to be my life with Carmen.

"So ladies, I'm going to give you an objective for next week," Dr. Gallin said with an optimistic smile.

Poor sucker. He probably didn't even know what a mutual fund was.

"Like homework?" Ashley asked, eyebrows raised in horror at the idea of doing something that involved thinking.

Maybe Aiden was the brain of their relationship after all.

"Sort of, Ashley. I want you to make a list this week of ten things you like about each other and ten things that bother you and have it ready for next session."

"Just ten, huh?" she replied with a smirk.

"Yes, ten. And I think that will us establish what's working and what's not for this marriage, ok?"

We both nodded.

"Great, see you next week."

We both shook the man's hand and walked out. Ashley stayed behind me. Probably to get a good view of my ass. Yeah, that's right, you VH1 "Where Are They Now" special waiting to happen. Take it all in. I've worked hard for it.

But my ass was nothing but in trouble as we walked down the hall, through the lobby and directly into my past.

Carmen.

There was no way it was happening, and yet at the same time I knew it would. Because everyday for the past month, God had greeted me in the morning with a big slap in the face for my efforts and the gift of bad luck. So what would've been any different about that particular morning?

Maybe I should start going to church again.

"Spence…hi!"

"Oh…wow…hey!" I said, leaning in to give her an obligatory hug.

Oh God.

She smelled so good. Like the Dolce I bought her last Christmas.

"I didn't know you were doing the therapy thing," she said, looking surprised, "good for you."

"Yeah…you know me. Always trying to better myself and um…talk about feelings and stuff…like that."

"Right, of course."

"I'm Ashley," the idiotic whore said, shaking Carmen's hand, but staring at me with an infuriating smile, "her wife."

No.

No, no, no, no...

I mean…really, God? Is this punishment for the child harassment thing?

"Spencer, did you…are you married?" Carmen asked.

"Um…"

"Yes, indeed she is," Ashley said, wrapping an arm around my waist, "happily married at that."

Carmen looked shocked. I could only imagine the look on my face, and Ashley…well, Ashley looked like a four year-old at Disney World.

Easily amused.

And recently potty-trained.

"Congratulations…wow. That's incredible. I never thought you'd be the type to just rush into something like this."

"I know, right?" I said with a forced smile.

Let me explain something to you. I haven't seen Carmen since that night when she walked out on me. I know what you're thinking. And yes, we do in fact work together. But when I put my mind to something, I get it done. And I had really put my mind to avoiding her at all costs. Sometimes it required costumes.

"But you know, when something is right you just gotta go for it full-steam ahead," Ashley said, pulling me closer, "isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"Uh-huh," I said quietly.

"I couldn't quite hear you, sweetheart."

She would live to regret this.

"Yes. I said yes."

"Well, Spencer. I'd love to catch up. I haven't really seen you around the office but I guess you're busy."

"Big accounts and…stuff."

"Yeah, I imagine. You always were always really busy. So we should get together for lunch soon. And you know…catch up."

Yes.

Absolutely.

"Yes! Absolutely."

"Great, well I'll call you. And nice to meet you…"

"Ashley."

"Ashley, right. Of course. I'll call you, Spencer."

And with that she walked down the hall to her appointment. How had I forgotten she was in therapy?

"Ex-girlfriend, huh?" Ashley asked as we exited the building.

"We were engaged actually."

"Really? Imagine someone not wanting to be married to you," she said with a smile before walking to her car.

Oh, yes. She would regret this day.


	10. Chapter 10

_**New chapter. Hope you enjoy!**_

**ASHLEY**:

1.She's labeled everything in the refrigerator. Six-pack of Pomegranate IZZE—Spencer. Six-pack of JELLO Pudding with the awesome vanilla swirl—ME. Container of organic strawberries from Whole Foods—Spencer. Box of Pizza Bagels—ME. One-pound bag of organic trail mix with raisins—Spencer. Additional box of Pizza Bagels—ME.

2.My apartment smells like newborn babies and Elizabeth Taylor's cleavage.

3.She's anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, and neurotic. Like the kind of person that keeps a collection of catalogs from The Container Store and/or coupons from Office Depot.

4.My apartment smells like it took a bath in cotton candy-scented bleach.

5.She's alphabetized my entire book collection (after asking me if I had ever read them) by author's last name and then grouped them by genre. For fun.

6.She sings in the shower. Mostly Christina Aguilera's early work.

7.My apartment smells like the set of a Kate Hudson movie.

8.She's not Kate Hudson.

9.She owns way too many pinstripe suits. I don't know why. I just hate it.

10.My apartment smells weird.

**SPENCER**:

1.She uses my fifty-five dollar organic natural-fiber towels. Enough said.

pletely ignores the labels I thoughtfully placed on our refrigerated food items so we could tell them apart more easily. As if she doesn't know that the organic strawberries are mine. Ingrate.

3.Horribly loud iPod headphones. She should invest in a better pair. I suggest the ones I own.

4.Too many fedoras.

5.I'm not exactly sure if she showers twice-a-day. Gross.

6.She uses my fifty-five dollar organic natural-fiber towels.

7.What kind of twenty-five year-old eats pudding? I mean, seriously.

8.Two words. Incense burners.

9.Who doesn't own a Swiffer mop in this day and age? Ridiculous.

10.She's an actress.

11.The towels.

**ASHLEY**:

Her strange, disappointing version of sanity was slipping. It had to be.

I mean, I had started eating the bitch's strawberries, using those precious organic towels of hers, and burning incense for approximately five hours a day.

It was hard work.

Especially now that Aiden was busy playing penis pong with that artist.

How the fuck was Spencer best friends with an artist anyway? How does that even work? Because from what I had seen, Spencer's version of art was in the form a unique and creative invention known as the paper clip holder.

Either way, homegirl was losing it. Losing it like a virgin at Mardi Gras.

So I'm waiting, right? I'm waiting for her to go insane on me. Start throwing post-it notes, take scissors to my t-shirt collection (I'd kill her), pour my soy milk down the sink. But no.

Nothing.

For days she simply took it. She even bought a mini fridge for her room to house those precious strawberries of hers without even the slightest complaint. And I'm not going to lie to you, guys. I expected more. I expected a fight. I almost craved it. Yet…

Nothing.

So I was more than a little caught off-guard when she knocked on my door in the middle of the night a whole THREE days later.

I was awake of course. I had been lulled in by a marathon of "Parental Control" as usual.

Those crazy kids.

"What do you want?" I asked, more nervous than I care to admit, as I muted the television, "'cause I'm sort of busy right now."

"I don't know. I'm just…I guess I'm just a little lonely tonight."

I swallowed, "So..."

What?

"I was just wondering if maybe I could hang out in here," she said softly, biting on her lower lip. It would've been kind of cute if she was…well, you know…

Human.

"I guess. I'm just watching TV."

"That's fine. It's fine. I just don't want to be alone right now."

Was she drunk?

Was I drunk?

"Here," I said scooting over on the edge of my bed to make room for her, "this show is stupid, but um…addictive."

"Yeah, I know," she replied with a smile.

"You watch it?"

"Yeah, of course. I mean, if I can't sleep or I'm really bored or something…sure, why not?"

"I don't know. Because I never really pegged you as the type to get into trashy dating shows, I guess."

"Yeah, well…I am."

She smiled at me again. And it wasn't fake or forced or even tense.

"Oh, I've seen this one. She totally picks her asshole boyfriend over the other guys, even though…"

"Wow, thanks."

"What?"

"You just totally ruined the surprise for me."

"What are you talking about? They always pick the asshole boyfriend…or girlfriend. Whatever the case may be."

"Not always."

"Almost always. People love assholes."

A strangely comfortable silence filled the small amount of space between us. And because it confused me, because it was convincing me of things that simply couldn't be true, I attempted to ruin it by speaking.

"So I don't want you to take this the wrong way, Spencer, but…"

"What the hell do I want?"

"I would've said it more tactfully, but basically…yeah."

"I miss hanging out with someone. Chelsea's always with Mr. Abercrombie and I don't have a wedding to plan anymore…"

"Carmen?"

"Yeah."

"What happened with that anyway?"

She sighed, "Oh God. Where do I even begin?"

"What does she do?"

"She works with me. At Gensler. She's a consultant as well, but for small business development and design."

"Boring."

"Yeah, well…I love what I do. So does she."

"I guess someone has to. So wait, did you meet her at work or did you know her before?"

"We met at work. And she was very flirtatious with me right from the beginning. She made it easy and I knew we'd have something in common right away since we worked in the same field…and you know, she's very attractive."

"She's ok, I guess."

"She's ridiculously detail-oriented and organized and logical…"

"Wow, it sounds like you're describing your iPhone," I said with a smirk.

"She's everything I've always wanted. And like I said, it was just all so easy. Too good to be true, I imagine."

"It sounds to me like you guys were too much alike. And when you hook up with someone really similar to you then you run the risk of jealousy taking over."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"One of you will never be as good as the other. You can like and do all the same things all day long. That's great. But one of you has to be doing it better, right? And so the other person is jealous. She's obviously jealous of you."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"No, you're wrong."

"Spencer, you give the word 'perfectionist' a whole new meaning. How could this girl ever compete with that? And since she couldn't compete and win, she simply chose not to compete at all. She's a loser and a quitter, so we don't want her anyway. Move on to bigger and better."

"Bigger and better? It's just that simple?"

"Sure! But while you're at it, try to find someone who can do something you can't."

She smiled, "That doesn't exist."

"You got kitchen skills?"

"What?"

"Can you cook? Are you good with a spatula?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright, what about knitting?"

"I don't really have the time to just…"

"Ok, see? There you go. Go find yourself a knitter who doesn't cook and you've got it made, my friend."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm not. I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

"Bullshit. Girls like you secretly love relationships 'cause you're all about the drama. You get off on having these desperate women calling you and texting you and leaving their boyfriends for you. All that shit. You girls love that. You live for it."

I shook my head, "Not true."

"Oh yeah? Tell me the last woman you dated who actually intimidated you. Like made you nervous…made you feel inadequate? Who's the last person who actually made you work?"

"My mother."

"I'm serious."

"Look, I don't know! I don't really date those types of women. They're usually bitches."

"Interesting. So if a woman doesn't take your shit she's a bitch?"

"Um…yeah, actually I've found that to be the case."

"Wow. Thank God you're in therapy."

"What about you, Madam Perfect? If you've got it all together, where's your Princess Charming?"

"In her apartment in Noe Valley."

"Carmen?"

"Carmen."

"You've got to move on, dude. She's just another girl. Lucky for you, there are zillions of other ones who look just like her. Go jump on 'em."

"But they're not her."

I shrugged, staring at the television again. It was so weird to have her sitting next to me. It was weird to actually talk to her about something other than coffee beans and appointment times. It was so weird to be kissing her…

Whoa.

Hold on.

Her lips were on mine before I could even get the signal from my brain that, "yeah, homegirl was in fact all over me." But once I did, I certainly kissed her back. She was aggressive (of course), her hands all over me before she finally just straddled me completely. Two pinstripe-clad legs wrapping around my waist and pulling me towards her.

Finally, she broke away and stared at me. Her hands were buried in my hair, her eyes dark, her lips swollen.

It was hot.

Whoa numero dos. Did I just refer to Spencer Carlin as hot?

She moved towards me again, trailing her mouth up my neck and stopping near my ear.

"Ashley?" she whispered.

"Yeah?" I said between heavy breaths.

"You know what I want you to do?" she said.

Oh, yes!

"No…tell me," I said, giving her a bit of the old Ashley Davies seduction.

"I want you…" she breathed directly into my ear, sending five-hundred different kinds of shockwaves right to my center.

"You want me to what?"

"I want you…to stop…eating my fucking strawberries!" she said, sliding off my lap, "I swear to you, Ashley. I will take scissors to everything you own, you ignorant asshole."

And with that, she was gone.

Leaving me alone to process her idea of revenge. And perhaps to masturbate. Whichever came first.


	11. Chapter 11

_NC-17...thanks for the feedback! And enjoy!_

**SPENCER**:

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been approximately three years and two months since my last confession. I kept meaning to get around to it, but my secretary said I didn't have an opening in my schedule. And I already had to move a few things around for yoga, you know? So coming and doing the whole confession thing wasn't even an option. But today I had a guy cancel…some asshole doctor from Walnut Creek who talks to me like I'm some kind of…"

"Child…"

"Exactly! See? You get it. You totally get it."

"No, child, I was going to ask you what brings you here? Counsel, prayer?"

"Oh, yes. Well I got married."

"Congratulations."

"No, this not a good thing. This is a horrible, terrible, stupid thing."

"Will you explain?"

"Ok, well I went away for a weekend to L.A. with my best friend, Chelsea. And while I was there I drank too much and ended up getting married to a former teen star with the I.Q. of a dolphin. Got it so far? Because I totally have to get back to work."

"Uh…yes, yes. I believe so."

"Good. So anyway we go to get the annulment, right? But the judge is a total asshole and won't let us out of this thing until we 'learn the value of marriage' or whatever. Which is stupid, right? Because I completely understand the value of marriage. I was drunk and horny and I made a mistake. Should I have to pay for that forever?"

"Perhaps this is an opportunity for you. Maybe this is a lesson in disguise…from God."

"No."

"No?"

"You don't understand. This woman—Ashley—she's…I don't even know if there are enough words to describe how hard she sucks. I mean, she's messy and…and lazy…and…"

"Does it make you feel better to judge her?"

"Yes."

He was silent.

"Ok, fine…it doesn't."

"See?"

"So what am I supposed to do? Accept her as she is or something?"

"It would please God."

"Well if it pleases God…"

"I believe it would please you as well. Simply try to show compassion and understanding towards her. In the process, perhaps you will learn something of value. Just like the judge said. And consult with your Bible for further instruction of you become frustrated or lost."

"Fine."

"Anything else?"

"I'm going to need some hardcore penance, I think."

"Why is that?"

"I pretended I was going to sleep with her and then left before anything really happened."

"Why did you do that?"

"She ate my strawberries…used my towels…you know?"

"I don't think I understand."

"She deserved it. Trust me. But in case she didn't, I'm going to need some major penance. So can you fax that to my secretary? I'll leave the number, ok?"

"That's not exactly the way it…"

"Awesome, thanks," I said, exiting the booth.

I felt so much lighter. I should go to confession more often.

**Much more often.**

I stood in the middle of the room holding the remains of my favorite pinstripe pants. My 385 Alice+Olivia wide-legged, tailored pants.

Ashley.

She had poured the contents of an entire gallon of Elmer's Glue on them, then covered them in confetti.

Assorted-colored confetti.

It was the last thing I needed after a long day at the office.

"You like them, sweetheart?"

I turned around to find her in the doorway, smiling like the idiotic whore that she was.

"Why would you do this?"

"Oh God, good question," she said, pretending to be in deep thought, "yeah, I guess because of the little stunt you pulled last night."

"It wouldn't have happened if you would've kept your hands off of my shit."

"I don't really think the punishment fit the crime, Spencer. In fact, I think last night was a little less about punishing me and a little more about wanting to touch me. Am I right?"

I smiled back at her as I closed the distance between us until we were mere centimeters apart, "Actually, no. Last night was about reminding you that you and I aren't in the same league. For every stupid little prank you come up with after hours of thought, I will deliver a master plan full of intricate psychological tactic and strategy and use it to make you look like the idiot that you are."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah," I said nodding.

She nodded too, and stepped forward. It was almost an impossibility considering how close we were before. But now her lips rested on mine. I knew it was a test. Because just like everything else Ashley had up her sleeve, it was simple and obvious. If she was trying to make me uncomfortable, she was about to learn that it doesn't happen often.

"So this doesn't turn you on at all…being this close to me?"

"Quite the opposite, actually. It reminds me of getting a mammogram. Oh, and also, I'm not sure if I've reminded you today but I hate you. I hate you a lot."

She didn't respond as I expected her to, instead I felt the slight sensation of her fingers on the small of my back. They moved up slowly. So slowly in fact, that I felt as though I could've been imagining it.

"What are you doing?" I asked, unable to hide the tremor in my voice.

Her fingers moved faster now, coming to rest on my sides before making their way up the front of my torso.

"Spencer," she said, quietly.

I opened my eyes, not even realizing they had been closed, "What?"

"Can I ask you something?"

She continued moving her fingers in soft, circular motions as they inched up towards the point where a line would have to be crossed in order to proceed.

"What is it?"

Her lips crashed into mine and I didn't stop it.

Her fingers hurried to unbutton my identical pair of Alice+Olivia pinstripe pants and I didn't stop them.

These were my mistakes.

Because soon her fingers were shoving a thong way too expensive to be shoved out of the way and two of them were deep inside me, thrusting as if there was something to be gained when it was so clear that what was happening was the second biggest mistake of my life.

"Ashley," I whispered, unable to say anything else as she and I stumbled back onto my bed and she used this new leverage to slide her fingers even deeper inside me.

"Say it again," she said, as her lips made their way closer to my ear.

Couldn't she see I wasn't exactly in a position to make small talk?

"Say what?"

"Say that you hate me."

Oh God, really?

Was this going to be one of those arrogant, semi-sadistic kind of things? Because Carmen and I had tried that once and it ended with me watching re-runs of "Law in Order" in the living room all night.

But since today had been a day of confession, I can admit that it was quite a bit hotter coming from Ashley.

Perhaps it was because I actually did hate her.

"I fucking hate you," I said as I started to move into her fingers, urging her to fuck me harder.

Lesson of advice, people. Girls in suits like to be fucked hard and don't let them tell you any differently. Actually, if they do tell you differently then you should probably listen to them 'cause you don't want to end up in prison.

She let out a deep moan that echoed in my ear and sent a flood of wetness down where her fingers were hard at work.

I was so busy thinking about the consequences I would suffer for allowing this to happen that my own orgasm surprised me. I was surprised that Ashley actually allowed it instead of pulling away and walking out satisfied with a bit of revenge of her own. I was surprised that it happened so quickly. And I was surprised it had happened at all.

Ok, fine. Another confession.

I had never had an orgasm. Ok, that's not exactly true. I have had many orgasms in my life. They just all happened to be when I was alone—with my vibrator.

But Ashley had been considerate enough not only to keep her fingers thrusting away without pause, but to grind hard against me while she did it creating the kind of rhythm I could most definitely sing along to. And I did. Embarrassingly enough, I did.

And when I finally stopped writhing beneath her and every tiny jolt of electricity had finally subsided, she nodded and pulled away.

"Yeah," she said, studying her glistening fingers, "I can tell that you really hate me…not turned on by me at all. No way."

I glared at her, propping myself up on my elbows so she didn't miss it.

"It was a mistake," I said, attempting to keep my cool.

"Oh, definitely. I know."

"And it's never going to happen again."

"Hey, Carlin. It only happened this time because I had a point to prove. I'll see you in therapy," she said, hopping off of my bed and walking out.

**"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…again. It has been…" I checked my watch, "four hours since my last confession.**

"Oh."

"Yeah. Um…I accidentally had sex with my wife. Amen."


	12. Chapter 12

_**Thanks so much for reading, everyone. Here's the next chapter!**_

**ASHLEY**:

"Are you serious?"

"Like Joan Rivers at a Botox convention. Like John Mayer in the first two days of a relationship. Like Amy Winehouse at a…"

"I get it. I get it," Aiden said, holding up his hands.

"…crack carnival."

"I can't believe this."

"I was only kidding. There's no such thing as a crack carnival."

"I'm talking about the fact that you slept with Spencer!"

"Oh, yeah…that."

"What happened?"

"You really want to know?" I asked as I reached for my coffee mug.

"Of course."

"Detail by detail?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright, well…I unbuttoned her pants. She had on this hot…I think it was lace or something. Anyway, I just kind of shoved it to one side and then I took two fingers and…"

"Ok, ok, ok…I know how _that_ happened, Ash. I meant, how did you let it get that far? When did you decide it was acceptable to sleep with her as…as some sort of twisted revenge?"

"I told you! She started it, man. If she hadn't blue-balled me the night before, I wouldn't have had to sleep with her."

"Are you listening to yourself? 'I wouldn't have had to sleep with her?' I mean, come on! This has gone too far and you know it."

"If you insist."

"Am I alone here? You don't think this sounds absolutely ridiculous?"

"If by ridiculous you mean 'necessary' then we whole-heartedly agree, my friend. That being said, aren't these pancakes delicious?" I asked, immersing my breakfast in syrup.

"Ashley..."

"Like, they're light and fluffy and perfect. See? This is why I love coming here. They understand the complexity of the pancake. I appreciate that. Because it's an art form. I know you think you know art now since you've started dipping your paint brush in an artist , if you know what I mean…"

"Ash…"

"Good syrup too. It tastes rich, you know? Like a fucking tree."

"You're complicating an already complicated situation with sex. As usual."

"Dude, just be a guy for three fucking seconds and ask me how it was."

"How was it?"

I dropped my voice a couple octaves, "She screamed like a forgotten tea kettle, my friend."

"Great," he mumbled, unenthusiastically, "so what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You two have slept together. That doesn't change everything?"

"No."

"It doesn't?" he asked skeptically.

"Absolutely not, dude."

"Fine. So will it happen again?"

"Oh yeah, we have it on the calendar for Friday at 6:30," I said with a smile, "her idea."

"Are you serious? I hope you're not serious."

"No, I'm not. But what if I was?"

"You would sleep with her again?"

"Sure, why not? She's a warm lady body and she lives a few feet away from my room."

"But you hate each other."

"Exactly."

"Don't just say 'exactly' as if that somehow explains everything."

"Dude, what is your problem? Are you fighting with the artist? Is your agent scheduling you those mall shows again? Wait…wait, I know," I said, leaning in towards him, "Aiden, is it that time of the month?"

"You're not being smart about this, Ashley."

Before I could offer him a tampon, my cell rang. I dropped my fork and grabbed my phone, looking at the screen.

"It's my mom," I said, answering the call, "Hello?"

"Ashley, it's your mother."

"Yeah, that's what my technology said."

"What?"

"Never mind. What's up, mom?"

"Aiden called me."

I glared at him and got a wide grin in return. My mom had given him her number the day they met. Then she grabbed his package in the wine cellar and offered to "show him that meno_pause_ didn't mean she couldn't _play_." Apparently he took that as an invitation to tell tattle tale on me like the juice box sipping, first-grader he obviously was.

"Uh-huh."

"He says you're married."

"Super."

"Is it true, Ashley?"

"I think so."

"I can't believe you! Must you keep me out of every important event in your life? It's like that time you didn't tell me you had made the cover of 'People'"

"It was for the year's worst-dressed list, mom. Nothing to write home about."

"But it was the cover! That's what matters."

"It wasn't really…"

"I want to meet her, of course."

"No."

"So I'll drop by on Saturday…"

"No."

"We can go to lunch, perhaps. It'll be wonderful."

"No."

"Perfect, see you then," she said, hanging up the phone.

I stared at the blank screen a long time before meeting Aiden's eyes.

"I'm going to kill you."

"I thought maybe it would help you understand the reality of your situation, Ash. I'm sorry I had to do it, but you're obviously in complete denial."

"I think for some reason you think I'm joking. But I'm not. Like, I'm seriously going to kill you."

"Look, this is for your own good, Ash. And I know you can't see that now, but once day you will and you'll thank me for it."

"And by 'thanking you' you mean I'm going to kill you?"

"Whatever."

"I don't know if I can ever talk to you again, dude. I mean, this might be it. I might have to pull a Lauren/Heidi on your ass. It just might come to that."

"Don't sleep with her again, Ashley. It's not a good idea. If she really is after alimony then she's dangerous and you've got to…I repeat, you've _got_ to be careful."

"I know what I'm doing. Don't be such a…a…"

"Friend?"

I shrugged, "I was going to say 'pussy' but sure."

"I love you, Ash. I don't want to see this thing blow up in your face."

"Gross."

"What?"

"Whenever anybody says that, I just immediately think of blowjobs," I said, sliding my chair back now that this meal was officially ruined, "you got this today?"

"Don't I get it everyday despite the fact that you have substantially more money than I do?"

"Yeah."

"Then what would be different about today?"

**I walked aimlessly down Valencia, dodging in and out of shops and cafés whenever I saw the looks on stranger's faces that signaled they recognized me.**

It's a hard life, the one I lead. People are constantly wanting to tell me how much they love me or how hot I am or sometimes they want pictures. Those are the worst.

The best scenario is when people just straight up cop to the fact that they want to fuck me and tell their friends about it over coffee the next morning at the local Starbucks.

Star fucks at Starbucks. I should be a poet.

After a guy sporting a hipster mullet and the tightest pair of skinny jeans mother nature had ever seen looked as though he was going to ask for my autograph (aren't hipsters supposed to me more apathetic than that? Could he even admit to owning a TV?), I ducked in a used bookstore to hide out for awhile.

It was almost empty except for a brunette with her back to me and the owner—who trust me, would never be the type to recognize me from "Teenagers on the Edge." Well mostly because he hadn't been a teenager since the Great Depression.

I walked the aisles, scanning for all my favorite books until I finally walked up the brunette's aisle. We exchanged polite nods and I went back to my browsing. Well at least until…

"Ashley, right?"

"I'll give an autograph, alright? But I look pretty shitty today, so the picture option is off the table."

"You don't remember me?"

I looked closer. But the problem was that most girls looked about the same. Eyes, mouths, chins. They all had them.

"No, sorry."

"Carmen. We met the other day. And you're um…you're Spencer's wife, right?"

"Oh yeah! I remember now. What's up?"

"Just shopping around for a good book."

"Are you on your lunch break or something? I mean, I know you work with Spencer and she's always at work."

"No, I just gave myself the day off."

I must've looked confused because she quickly explained, "Spencer's a lot more dedicated to that job than I am. That was part of our problem when we were together."

"I could see that."

"She just…she's really…she likes it, you know? She really likes working and making deadlines and all the excitement that goes along with the job and I never did. I mean, I do. I do. Just not like her."

I nodded, "I could see that."

"But she's your wife, so I'm not trying to be weird or…"

"No, it's fine. It's perfectly fine. Spencer and I have a very understanding relationship. It's very open."

"Really?"

"Sure, why not?"

"She wasn't like that with me. She was very…how do I put this?"

"Anal-retentive? Obsessive-compulsive? Stiff? Boring? Rigid? Scheduled? Tightly-wound? Repressed?"

"Honestly? Yeah."

"Makes for good sex, though."

She shook her head, "Maybe with you two. But with us sex wasn't really…ok, look. I can't do this. This isn't right. You two are married and I don't want to offend you or cross any lines or anything, you know? So, I'm sorry."

"Trust me, it's fine. We should get together and talk maybe."

"But do you think it's right to…"

"You should vent. Let it out. Talk about it. It's good for you. And I'm much hotter than your therapist. Trust me on that too."

"Ok, sure. I'll give you my number."

She reached into her purse and handed me one of her cards.

"Thank you, Ms. Morales," I said.

"You're welcome. So just call me. I'll make time."

I nodded and smiled as she walked away, taking in the beauty of it all. I was about to show Spencer Carlin the meaning of playing dirty.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Enjoy, you guys. Thanks so much for reading and all feedback. I'll see you again soon for another update!**_

**SPENCER:**

"So you don't think I'm a slut?"

"Do _you_?"

"Do I what?"

"Do _you_ think you're a slut?"

"Yeah…I mean, don't you?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what you think, because guess what? You're the one who has to live with it. Not me."

"But you're my best friend and therefore you have to be around me sometimes, thus living with my sluttiness. You're going to associate with my inner-slut if we're going to be best friends. That's just the way it is…I mean, if I _am_ a slut. Which we haven't confirmed yet, right?"

"You're not a slut."

"Ok, so are we like, confirming that? Are we agreeing that I'm not a whore?"

"We never mentioned the word 'whore.' We said 'slut' and that's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because…well, actually I'm not quite sure. But it is. Trust me, it's really different."

"Really different or totally different?"

"What's the difference?"

"This is getting complicated."

"You're right. Let's just go see the one with Ben Stiller."

Two minutes later, Chelsea and I had bought our tickets and were sitting in the empty movie theater. I had demanded she take a break from fucking her gigantic, walking, "penis-included" paper doll and spend some quality time with me listening to all of my problems.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I listen to her problems too. It's just that they're usually about oil paints or collages or something. And unless she wants me to come by and color code her paint, then there's nothing I can do to help.

"I just can't believe you slept with her," Chelsea said, shaking her head and reaching into her bucket of popcorn.

"It was an accident."

"Why do people say that?"

"Because it happens!"

"Ok, explain this phenomenon to me then. How did you 'accidentally' let her fuck you?"

"I don't know. It just…I mean…you know how when…"

"Exactly. See? You can't explain it," she said with a victorious smile, "because you know it's insane. It's complete and utter insanity."

"Well great. My best friend thinks I'm a crazy slut."

"Yeah, but I love you anyway."

"That's not comforting."

"Should be."

I exhaled loudly, reaching for a handful of her popcorn, "It's never going to happen again."

She had the audacity to laugh at me, "Yes it is."

"Oh my God. Why are you saying that?"

She only laughed harder.

"No, Chelsea. I'm serious. Why are you saying that?"

"Because, Spencer! Because you had an orgasm!"

I covered her mouth with my hand, "Shhh…keep your voice down."

"Look around, Spence. We're the only ones here. And there's no reason to be embarrassed that you had good sex. Good sex is good sex."

"Look, regardless of the fact that Ashley happens to have one thing going for her, it doesn't change the fact that she's everything I hate about humanity."

"You're full of shit, "she said with a knowing smile, "now watch the movie."

_**I got home late.**_

And drunk.

Tripping down the hall over Ashley's lazily discarded boots.

Seeing her playing Guitar Hero in the living room.

Struggling to stand as I leaned against the couch, her eyes all over me.

These are some of the things I remember.

"I fucking hate you," I said with a grin.

"It's good to know that hasn't changed since you left, Mrs. Davies."

"You know what I want?"

She paused the game, "We said we wouldn't…"

"Brownies."

"Brownies?"

"Yeah," I say, collapsing next to her on the couch, "like homemade ones, you know?"

"I don't think I can help you with that."

"My mom makes the best brownies."

"Yeah, well…the only thing my mom makes are martinis and enemies."

"I'm drunk," I say, turning around to look at her face, illuminated only by the blue light from the television.

"So I see."

"I told myself I wasn't going to get drunk anymore after…you know…our wedding."

"I wouldn't call that a wedding…you know, since it happened at 1:30 in the morning and was attended only by me, you, and a homeless man named Timothy."

"Ok, fine. After we got drunk and then subsequently married. How's that?"

"I'll take it."

I nodded, then fell into her lap head-first.

Look, I can't control myself when I drink, ok? I thought that was obvious by now.

"Not a good idea, Spencer," she said, shifting slightly.

"I'm not going to try to fuck you, alright? Jeez..."

"That's not what…"

"I should call Carmen, maybe."

"Also not a good idea."

"Why?"

"It's not good to drunk dial the ex and somewhere deep inside that ocean of booze, you know it."

"I miss her so much."

I couldn't help it as an arrant tear ran down my face, landing on her lap.

I also cry when I'm drunk. It's all very attractive.

"She's not worth it."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Spencer, look at me," she said with a sigh, "if she can walk away from you then she's not worth it. It's that simple."

"But I'm hard to be with, right? I hold people up to impossible standards, I try to box them in…I organize their sock drawers…"

"There's someone out there just waiting to have their sock drawer organized, ok? Someone's waiting for you. And they'll be happy to be boxed in as long as they're boxed in with you, I promise."

"Who? Where are they? Prison?"

"Prison? No, Spencer. They're probably out buying shelves or something. I'm not saying it's easy out there, but it's worth it, right?"

"No."

"It is."

"You don't even date so this is all really easy for you to say. Ashley Davies, sitting on her golden pedestal looking down on all us pathetic people out on our stupid dates and hoping the girl we met at Pottery Barn calls us like she said she would. I get it."

"You ever wonder why I stopped dating?"

"I don't wonder about you very often, actually. I'm never bored enough to let that happen."

"You're so sweet. Anyway, shut up and let me tell you this story," She said, adjusting again so that I was looking up at her, "I was dating a girl right after the show went off. It was pretty serious. Like the kind of serious where you're actually excited about Valentine's Day, you know?"

I nodded.

"So this one night we went out to a party and I lost her. Like, I couldn't find her anywhere…that is, until I did. In a bedroom with a guy."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well…what are you gonna do, right?"

"Well there's someone for you too, Ash. Someone who doesn't even mind that you absolutely refuse to move your boots out of the middle of the hall or that you don't know the meaning of personal items or that…"

"I get it. Thanks."

"I'm serious."

She shrugged, but she smiled a little too, moving a strand of hair out of my eyes.

"Like I said, thanks."

"You're welcome. But I've got to say, Ashley, all of this just makes me miss her more."

"Hearing about my ex-girlfriend cheating on me makes you miss her more?"

"No, talking about…I don't know," I said shaking my head, "I don't know."

"Spencer, you have to stop avoiding her. Go to lunch with her or something. Then you'll remember her as she really is—not as the girl who got away."

"But what if it only makes me miss her more?"

"I can almost guarantee that it won't."

"Fine, Dr. Phil. I'll try it."

"Good."

I yawned, looking up at her, "I'm tired."

"Then go to bed."

"Good idea."

She laughed, "Wow, a compliment. You should get drunk more often."

"Shut up. Help me."

She lifted me up until we were both awkwardly standing and together we shuffled down the hall. Me leaning on her shoulder. Her arm wrapped around my waist. I'm sure the visual conjured up something all "Time" magazine-like. Images of wounded soldiers injured in battle, carrying each other to safety. But all I could think about was how surprisingly good she smelled.

That's all I remember.


	14. Chapter 14

**_Hey everyone! Just thought I'd drop in and maybe bring with me another chapter. Hope you enjoy it. Would love your feedback!_**

**ASHLEY**:

"Spencer?"

"Did you knock?"

"No."

"Do you know how to knock? Has anyone ever taught you?" she asked with a smug smile that leaves her face as quickly as it comes.

"No, I was too busy learning how to give uptight suits—like yourself—orgasms. So no…no time for knocking practice unless you use the word 'knocking' as a clever sexual reference. In that case, yes. I've practiced a lot. In fact, I could probably teach you how if you'd like," I say, journeying across the room until we're mere inches away, "would you like to learn?"

"You're an arrogant yet curiously insecure person with small hands. What do you want?"

I smiled, but she had cut me deep this time.

I did, in fact, have small hands.

But it's not the size that matters, folks. Remember that, as I do everyday.

"I need a favor."

She laughs hysterically, slamming the book she was reading down on her perfectly-made bed, "You've got to be kidding. You come in here to ask me for a favor without the courtesy of knocking, only to add insult to injury by making your characteristically inappropriate small-talk and attempting to imply that I'm frigid? Amazing, Ashley. A true testament to your intelligence."

I could've killed her, I guess. I mean, that was always an option, right? I watch a lot of television, my friends. I know how to clean up a crime scene. Wouldn't it be kind of beautiful to use her cleaning products to do it?

Hmm…

"Fine," I say, walking backwards out of the room, "I'll start all over."

"Wonderful idea."

I knock, faux-grin plastered on my face. I re-enter the room and curtsy, stepping forward a couple of feet until I'm back where I was originally.

Anybody else remember a time not too long ago when I was a motherfucking badass? This is what marriage does to you, guys.

Watch out.

Invest in a weapon.

She meets my eyes innocently, "Oh, hi, Ashley. Is there something I can help you with this afternoon?"

I clench my jaw to keep from saying anything sarcastic/insulting/deserving. "Yes, actually. I need a favor."

She nodded, signaling me to continue.

"My mother is coming over for lunch today and…"

"You want me out of the apartment, is that right?"

"No, actually. I very much want you _in_ the apartment because it's you she's coming to see."

Her eyes narrow. Her arms cross, "What are you talking about?"

"Aiden called her and spilled the beans that we were married, so now she wants to meet you."

"Why didn't you tell her the truth? Why didn't you tell her that you got drunk and accidentally married someone too good for you?"

"Listen, princess. All I need you to do is pretend that you're not a rigid, alcoholic psychopath for a couple hours, ok? That's all."

"Wow…wow. When you put it that way…no," she said, picking up her book and dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

Oh, fucking Christ.

It was like begging Satan for an ice cream cone.

"Ok, I'm sorry. What I meant was…"

"Wait, wait, wait. What did you just say?"

"When?"

"Just then."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah, say it again."

"Is this the kind of thing that turns you on, Carlin? Hearing people apologize?"

"You want me to play fucking trophy wife for your mother or what, you ignorant fucking trollop?"

"Did you just call me a 'trollop?' Are you stealing your insults from the Bible now? I mean, seriously. Moses just called. He wants that word back."

She glared at me, waiting.

"Alright, fine. I'm sorry."

"And…"

And?

"And what?"

"And you owe me," she said, leaning back on her carefully propped pillows.

"I owe you?"

"If I ever need anything…anything at all…"

Oh, how quickly I would come to regret this.

**"In a couple weeks, Ashley and I are attending the gala my company hosts every year," Spencer said, smiling at my mother like a maniacal girl scout or a seven year-old at a Hannah Montana concert.**

"How fancy!" my mother gushed, "Ashley, we'll have to make sure you have the appropriate dress for such an event. No jeans or God forbid…vests."

"Oh, Ms. Davies…"

"Please, Spencer. Call me Christine."

"Of course. Christine, we'd love it if you'd come shopping with us."

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…"

"Oh no, I'll be in France for the next few month. But I do appreciate the invitation."

Saved by the French.

"That's too bad," Spencer replied with a disappointed pout, taking a bite out of her salad.

I had to give it to her, though. Spencer was performing like a trained dog and my mother was eating it up with her usual silver spoon.

I hadn't seen her so happy since that time her plastic surgeon assured her he could make her look twenty again—you know, if twenty year-olds look like sad plastic clowns.

"You know, Spencer. I'm just thrilled to meet you. Ashley has the bad habit of forgetting to include me in her life. But what can you expect, really?" my mother said, adjusting her napkin in her lap, "she's always thought she was the only one alive."

"Here we go, mom," I say, shaking my head.

"What? I can't help it, can I? It's true! You've always been selfish and you know it. When your father died you acted as though you were the only one who had ever met the man! How easily you forgot that I had been putting up with his crap for twenty years. He came into town when it was convenient for him. Not to see me. Certainly not to see you."

"That's completely ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"He resented you because he saw you for the bitch that you are. But that never stopped him from loving me."

Spencer looked horrified, her eyes moving back and forth between my mother and I like she was watching some sort of angry tennis match.

Or an episode of "Next."

"Maybe it's time for me to leave."

"Yeah, maybe it is," I say, standing up, "you can let yourself out."

I walked quickly out of the dining room and into the living room, leaving Spencer with my mother.

It's not like I didn't feel bad about it. Typically I wouldn't leave Christine alone with a house plant, but since Spencer had already used so many in her decorating, I figured there was no use in even trying.

I heard muffled conversation from my position on the couch and then the front door being softly shut. Spencer walked into the living room looking confused.

"What was that all about?"

"Spencer, let's not do this. I really don't want to talk about it."

"Have you ever noticed that every time I ask you about your life you give me the same answer?"

Ever noticed you ask all the same questions, Psychopath Barbie?

"I'm a very private person."

"But," she said, smiling and sitting in my favorite recliner, "I'm your wife."

"My wife…right. You really want to know?"

I would've literally done or said anything to shut her up. I hate talking about girl shit. Like feelings.

"I really want to know."

"My mother married a slacker from Ohio who used to perform in his friend's basement and by the time it was all over, she had a rockstar who was playing shows all over the world. My father married a naïve cheerleader who thought he was God's gift and ended up with a gold digging ex-wife that resented him."

"Ok, and where are you in all this?"

"Despite anything my mother says, she knows my father loved me. Towards the end I was the only reason he was coming home at all and…and she hated that. She hated that she had to compete with anyone, let alone a child. Her child."

Spencer nodded, "And when he died…"

"When he died and left me everything she felt like it was the ultimate betrayal. He had chosen me over her. Which is…I mean, what kind of woman feels like she's in direct competition with her daughter?"

"I don't know."

"Then I guess it's lucky for me that we have therapy in an hour, huh?"

"Shit, really?"

Wait a minute…

"You forgot about it?"

She looked absolutely panicked, "I can't believe this. Why didn't she call me?"

"Who?"

"My secretary. Why didn't she fucking call me?"

"Um, maybe because it's a Saturday? Or maybe because our sessions are always on Saturday and she thought you'd have a more impressive memory than that of a goldfish. I don't know."

Spencer had rearranged all of our therapy sessions for Saturdays so she didn't have to take off of work anymore.

Or you know, so I couldn't have a life anymore. One of the two.

"She's so fired."

"But I just told you, myself! It's not like you're going to miss it. Calm down."

"You don't understand," she said shaking her head, "people have responsibilities. She gets paid for those responsibilities!"

"Did you call Carmen?"

"Are you trying to change the subject?"

"Obviously."

"I'll do it when I'm ready."

"In a couple years, huh?"

"I'm going to do it."

She wasn't going to do it. Not that I cared.

"Waiting for a holiday? Or your next five shots of vodka?"

"I will do it."

I stood up, "Let's go."

She stood up too and walked out of the living room.

"Same car?" she asked, yelling over her shoulder.

"Sure."

Aww…look at us making progress.

"Actually," she said, walking out of her room—heavy purse on her shoulder, "you're a terrible driver. I'll meet you there."

Never mind, ladies and gentlemen.

Never fucking mind.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Hey, guys. Here's a new chapter. I hope you guys like it. Thanks for all the feedback. I love it. Enjoy._**

**SPENCER**:

Have you ever waited for something so long that you felt as though it would consume you? Absolutely tear you apart, expose you for the anxious wreck that you are, ignore your frantic, beating heart and consume you? Have you ever had it happen thirty times in a row?

One month.

Four weeks.

Thirty days of Ashley Davies.

One month.

Four weeks.

Thirty days remaining of Ashley Davies.

And then I was free.

Absolutely free.

I could go back to adequate feng shui and food grouped by nutritional content and perfect, priceless, necessary moments of absolute peace in which to blissfully clean my closet or organize my files.

This is freedom, you guys. This is what I missed.

"Spencer?"

"I'm sorry, um…I guess I'd like her to clean the bathroom more."

"Ashley, are you hearing this?"

"I'm listening," she says, unenthusiastically.

"Yes, Ashley. But are you _hearing _her? That's what's important. It's the hearing."

"Ok, fine. I hear her or whatever. I get it. I'll clean the bathroom, ok? With my tongue if that's what she wants."

I considered the offer.

"Spencer, is it safe to say that this isn't just about the bathroom? Would you say that I'm right in assuming you're merely using the bathroom as a symbol of what's actually wrong here?"

I thought about it.

"No, I really just want her to clean the fucking bathroom."

"Here's what I think," Dr. Gallin said, scooting forward in his pretentious leather chair, "may I tell you what I think?"

"That's why we're here, right?"

Well, technically we were there because the judge made it a mandatory condition in granting our annulment, but whatever…

"You see, I think that the bathroom is merely a symbol. It's a battleground for everything that frustrates you about Ashley."

"A battleground?"

"Ashley's refusal to maintain the cleanliness of the bathroom represents her refusal to respect your wishes or her disregard to the order you find necessary in the enjoyment of your life," he said, obviously proud of himself, "Ashley, what do you think?"

"What do I think about what?"

"What I just said…about the bathroom representing…"

"I don't agree at all. I mean, if you want I can sit here and nod and look pretty and act like I agree. But the truth is, I don't. 'Cause you know what? I think the bathroom represents something else for Spencer."

Oh really?

"Oh really?" Dr. Gallin said, attempting to hide his condescension.

"Spencer loves control. She's obsessed with it, ok? She lives for that shit. You know why? Because her life is a fucking wreck. She's not happy. I'm sorry," she says, turning to me, "but you're not. And so she's trying to organize all these little things that don't really matter, you know? And she's trying to piece them together until they're big enough to make up for the happiness she doesn't have. It's sad, really."

I laughed, "Dr. Gallin, may I?"

He gestured for me to speak—which to be honest, I was going to do with or without his permission.

"Ashley loves chaos. She's obsessed with it. She lives for it. You know why? Because her life is fundamentally boring. She's not happy. I'm sorry," I said, turning towards her with a mocking smile, "but you're not. And so she spends all her time convincing herself that the drive and determination of others is somehow inferior to her supposed 'freedom.' But she's not really free, is she? Because playing video games until two in the morning makes you no more free than sanitizing a bathroom. She spends most of her time criticizing people who—unlike her—realize that growing up is an essential part of the human process. The truth about Ashley Davies is that she's a sad, lonely child secretly crying out for the acceptance and approval that she'll never actually attain without the achievement of goals—which ironically, she's opposed to. It's sad, really."

There was an awkward silence that followed, but Ashley's eyes never left mine.

"You really think that?" she asked quietly.

"Ladies, maybe we should…"

But Ashley cut him off, "Spencer, you really think all that about me?"

Did I?

Or did I simply want to win?

Was all of this about winning?

I didn't know. So I said nothing, surprised that I even cared as she nodded and walked out.

"Spencer, maybe you should follow her," Dr. Gallin, practically begged.

God forbid he actually get involved himself.

Loser.

"Ashley, wait!" I called, running after her.

But it was too late.

--

"You said all that…like, to her face?"

"Yeah."

"Spencer!"

"I know…I know."

"What are you going to do?" Chelsea asked, walking over to sit a steaming hot cup of tea in front of me.

"I have to apologize, I guess."

"You know, I haven't been keeping track of your insane little marriage over the past few days. Tell me, when did you start caring if you hurt her feelings?" she asked with a presumptuous smile.

I didn't care about Ashley's feelings. I mean, I did. But only in the same way you care about anyone's feelings. If I'm walking down the street and I see a baby on fire, I don't kick it two times in the face and go on about my day. I try to help, right? Well, I would do the same thing for Ashley. Only in this case, I'm the one who lit her on fire.

Which kind of changes the dynamics of the example, but whatever…you know what I mean.

"I don't, Chelsea. But I'm a decent person so I don't exactly get my kicks out of tormenting her."

"Actually, for awhile there you sort of did. Do you want me to conveniently ignore that fact for the sake of our friendship?"

"Ok, fine! I did. But I'm an adult and it's time for the childish games to end. So as of right now, I am done being a bitch to Ashley Davies, ok? There. How's that?"

"I don't know…do you actually mean it?"

"I said it, didn't I?"

"But you say a lot of things, Spencer. Remember that time you told me that a man stole that adorable purple dress you borrowed from me and ran away with it? That didn't even make sense, now that I really think about it. And then two months later I found it in your closet."

"Are you serious, right now? I'm trying to come clean with you about this ridiculous situation I'm in and you bring up something that happened when we were freshmen in college?"

"I liked that dress a lot."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"It won't be the same."

"Chelsea, work with me here. I want to get past this so I can get back to analyzing my marriage. So tell me what you want."

"I want some new paint."

"What kind of paint?"

"Oil paint."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"And I never have to hear about this stupid dress again?"

"Never."

"Alright. I'll have my secretary take care of it. Now, onto my Ashley dilemma…"

"What happened?" Aiden asked, walking out in nothing but an awful pair of silk boxers.

"Sorry," Chelsea said with a nervous laugh, "I forgot to tell you that Aiden's here. So um...Aiden's here."

"I noticed."

But for the first time I was actually happy to see him.

"Aiden, I need help. Without getting into details—which I'm sure you couldn't follow anyway—I hurt Ashley's feelings and now I need to apologize. Or at least make it up to her somehow. Because if there's something I can get my secretary to buy instead of actually having to apologize then I'd prefer that."

"Ashley's really sensitive. She tries to act like she's not, but trust me…she is. So it takes her awhile to get over things," he said with a shrug.

"I don't have 'awhile', Aiden. I have a couple hours at most. I'm a working woman. I don't have time to watch 'Thelma and Louise' with her and spend the rest of the night dissecting the complexities of our relationship. I just don't."

"Fine. Then the fastest way to her heart is…"

--

I swung open the front door, making an obnoxious show of it so she'd realize I was home.

"Ashley!" I called down the hall from the foyer.

But she didn't answer. And I knew she wouldn't.

I walked into the living room, and there she was. The lights were off. She was illuminated completely by the street lights shining in through the window. It was all very "Lifetime Movie."

"Ashley, we need to talk," I said, dropping my purse on the coffee table. She flinched at the sound, but refused to speak.

"So…are you mad?"

She shook her head.

"Well, you certainly seem like you are," I said, sitting beside her.

"Look, Spencer. I'm fine. You had an opinion and you voiced it. It's not like I didn't voice mine."

"Yeah, but mine was exponentially worse than yours. I know that."

"It's fine."

I sighed, "I brought you chocolate croissants from that place you like."

"Seriously?" she asked with a tiny smile.

"I did."

"Well, that was very nice of you. How did you…"

"Aiden told me."

"You called Aiden?"

"I was at Chelsea's and…"

"He was there, huh?"

"As usual."

"They're so annoying."

"I couldn't agree more."

I handed her the box of croissants.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," I said with a slight nod, "it's cold in here."

Understatement. It was freezing. I felt like I was sitting underneath Santa's balls.

"Oh yeah?"

"You haven't noticed?"

"Not really, but I can light a fire if you want."

"That would be nice."

She stood up, turning to look at me before she walked across the room to lean beside the fireplace.

"Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you own 'Thelma and Louise?'"


	16. Chapter 16

_**hey, guys. here's another chapter. thanks for all the amazing feedback and enjoy!**_

**ASHLEY:**

"Actually, I do."

I don't know why.

Maybe it was fate.

Maybe it was stupidity.

Maybe it was on sale.

But I owned that motherfucker. I had always had a soft spot—or is it "wet spot?"—for Susan Sarandon.

"Are you fucking with me? You really own it?"

"Absolutely."

"Wow."

"What? Why is that 'wow-worthy?'"

She shook her head, "Nothing, I just didn't really picture you as the type."

People, don't judge a hot slacker by her cover, ok? I have depth. I own a copy of _Catcher In the _Rye for fuck's sake. I'm totally deep. So ignore the cover.

Though, I can't really blame you if you don't. I have a pretty nice cover.

"Well I am the type. There's nothing wrong with enjoying the image of two statuesque women in denim kicking some ass."

"Does murder count as 'kicking some ass?'"

"What do you mean? Of course it does."

"But it seems like a step beyond just regular, old school ass-kicking. Like, it's more than a black eye. We're talking all-black funeral attire and some gospel songs as they lower you into the dirt."

"Dude, that's like the ultimate ass-kicking. If I kick your ass and you _die_ from it…that's totally hardcore. I'm a fucking badass."

"I always suspected you were capable of murder," she said, her face expressionless.

"Me? What about you, madam? You want to talk about 'types?' I'm the type of girl who drinks a bit too much whiskey and ends up accidentally taking a bottle to the head of a guy who's trying to get in my pants, ok? Sort of like the movie a little bit. But you're the type who like, _plans_ murder. You would schedule that shit. Or you'd have your secretary do it."

"You think you've got me all figured out, is that right?"

"No, but I think I'm getting closer to putting your pieces together."

"Well I'm glad someone is. Because I have no idea anymore," she said, for a moment looking as though she might cry.

"Of course you do," I said, nervous at the idea of seeing her express emotion, "you've got your life all planned out. I don't even know what I'm going to eat for breakfast tomorrow. Nothing's a surprise for you."

"Sometimes a person needs a surprise to remind them that they're actually living. Other than that there would be nothing to separate me from a robot."

"You're not a robot. You use too much profanity."

She laughed, "I guess you have a point."

"So, this movie…" I said, transfixed by the fire.

"Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you hate me?"

I turned around to face her again, this time to see the tears start to fall.

"No…no, of course not. I mean, don't get me wrong, Spence…you're um…you're a handful. But I don't hate you. Not even close."

"I don't hate you either."

"Good. So we don't hate each other," I said, walking over to my movie collection, "you ready to watch this thing or what?"

"Vegan bacon, half a bagel with low-fat cream cheese, and a massive mug of that coffee you insist on drinking despite its crappiness."

"Is that a new movie? Because I don't think I own that one."

"No, that's what you're having for breakfast tomorrow."

I must've looked confused because she quickly explained, "You said you didn't know what you were going to have for breakfast tomorrow and you totally do. Because you have the same thing everyday. It's amazing really. You're more like me than you think."

"Just because I have a breakfast routine?"

"Precisely. Maybe my planning is a little more…manic, but it's the same idea. As for myself, don't think for a minute that I don't like the occasional game of Guitar Hero."

"Wait a minute, dude. You like the Hero?"

She nodded, "Why wouldn't I?"

Oh, I don't know. The constant sighing while I'm playing? The fact that she brings it up in therapy every week? The one time I found the game disc hidden under a bottle of Lysol?

"Why don't you play with me then?"

She shrugged, "I don't know."

"Well you should. I'll kick your ass, of course. But that shouldn't stop you from trying."

"I don't trust you anymore when you say you'll kick my ass, because now I know that it's potentially fatal."

Ah, and our conversation had come full-circle.

Lovely.

"I'm putting this movie in. No more talking."

Two hours later she was passed completely out, her head resting on my shoulder. It was awkward, to say the least. I mean, let's face it. It shouldn't have been, because once upon a time we had done the whole "sex thing." But you know, there's a difference between making a chick into a writhing, human finger puppet and actually having what stupid people call, a "sweet moment."

Intimacy.

Who needs it?

"Spence?"

She didn't move, which surprised me. Doesn't she seem like the type that would be a light sleeper? Like one of those people who jolted up in bed every time a fly landed on her bedside table.

"Spencer?"

Nothing.

Was I going to become the very person I hated so much?

I shook her.

Yeah, I know. The whole ragdoll thing. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Whoa…what?" she mumbled, sitting up straight and rubbing her eyes.

"Sorry. I really am, but you fell asleep."

"Oh."

She stretched, giving me a sleepy smile.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I said, finding her smile contagious.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I'm still cold."

"Here," I said, handing her my hoodie, "put this on."

"I can't. It's your favorite."

"What are you going to do? Color on it? I'm sure it will be fine. Here."

I tried to hand it to her again, but she just shook her head, "I should go to bed. I'm exhausted and I have a phone meeting early tomorrow morning."

"It's a Sunday."

"I'm not God, ok? I don't get the day off."

I shrugged, "Ok."

She stood up, walking towards her room, "Thanks, Ashley. That was fun."

"Sure, anytime."

She stretched again, and walked down the hall to her room.

"How did you let this happen?"

"I don't know, dude."

"When…I mean, how do you know? When did you realize that…"

"Just now."

"Just now?"

"Ok, not just now. Like, fifteen minutes ago."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have no idea. But she can't find out. Dude, if you tell the artist I will seriously dismantle your body and bury you under…"

"I get it. I won't tell her. Don't worry."

"You better not, Tiger Beat."

"Wow. I just can't believe that you like her."

"I know."

"And you don't think she has any idea? I mean, Ash, she's a smart girl."

"I know, but I'm a good actress."

"True."

"I guess it doesn't even matter. Because she wants this annulment more than Britney Spears wants a Starbucks built into the backseat of her car."

"I don't understand the comparison."

"Dude, Britney loves frappuccinos. Everybody knows that."

"I've never heard that."

"Alright, whatever. The point is, she wants out of this marriage."

"Ok, but so do you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Just because you're starting to like her a little bit doesn't mean that you two should stay married. There's a big difference between 'hey, I don't hate you as much anymore' and 'hey, let's stay married forever.'"

"Oh really, smart guy?"

"Really."

"Don't you think I know that? But it's not me she wants. She wants her ex."

"How do you know?"

"I have ears, dude. Cute ones. And trust me, she talks about this girl constantly."

"Then it's time to turn on the charm, all-star. You've got to woo this girl."

"Woo? Did you just use the word 'woo?'"

"I did."

"You're gay, man. I know I've joked about it before, but now I really feel like it's true. You're the kind of guy who downloads pictures of Cher, aren't you?"

"I'm hanging up the phone."

"Fine, but put on your thinking cap, Mr. Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Tomorrow is the first day of Operation Win Over Spencer Carlin."


	17. Chapter 17

_**Hey, guys. I was thinking of posting my other stories over here, which are all completed in case anyone wants easier access to them. I'll let you decide that though, so let me know. Also, thanks a lot for the amazing feedback. I've never posted here, so I was a little hesitant. But you guys have been awesome and I feel very welcomed. So, thanks again. Hope you enjoy the chapter, let me know if you want the other stories, and without further adieu...**_

**SPENCER**:

I was going to do it.

I was finally, finally going to do it.

And you know why, guys? You the know the kind of inspiration a girl needs to send her running back—full of alcohol and apologies—to her ex-fiancée?

Her marriage.

It's not as though things hadn't changed. Ashley and I had both made a conscious effort to get along. Her hands stayed off my groceries, her name no longer followed a string of screeching profanities when I accidentally tripped over a discarded boot in the middle of the night, and we had even taken to mutually watching A&E prison documentaries most nights of the week.

But that's just it, people!

Don't you get it?

If I could make this marriage with Ashley work—in our own twisted yet tolerable way, then maybe I was finally ready to make it work with Carmen. Maybe I was finally ready to put down the pre-perforated, color-coded labeling sheets and pick up the phone.

Of course, there was the risk that she would reject me. I wasn't rejected often. I had gotten into the two schools of my choice, been approved for every credit card I had ever applied for…and what else? Oh, that one year in high school when I tried out for wrestling team. The guys didn't appreciate my tendency to sanitize the mats after every practice, so that didn't last very long. But still…

Oh! And babies liked me. If they didn't, it was only because they could usually sense my hatred for their parents.

Enough examples.

You get it.

Rejection had never been my thing, right? And now I had to put my heart on the line for the one person who had done just that. Rejected me.

"Why are you talking to yourself?"

"Am I not allowed to talk to myself?"

"No, you are…I guess."

She frowned at me as she leaned against the doorframe of my bathroom, where I was having a serious discussion with myself in the mirror.

It's not weird. Trust me. It sounds weird, yeah. But at one point, so did the idea of online Scrabble to somebody.

"Do you need something?" I asked with a tired smile.

It had been a long day. A client had complained to the head of Gensler that I was (supposedly) "difficult to work with." The woman had the taste of Elton John and Christina Aguilera's love child.

On meth.

Forgive me for not being more excited as I ordered her purple silk floral pattern after purple silk floral pattern.

"I was just wondering what you were up to tonight. You want to do a movie?"

"Like, movie in the living room with a bag of popcorn and a beer or like, movie in the theater with someone's rude cell phone conversation and a screaming baby?"

She pretended to think, tapping her finger against her chin, "God, it's a really hard choice when you really think about it, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Totally."

"Hmm…"

"Shut up, Ashley. Put the movie in."

"You don't even know which movie I have in mind!"

I held up my hands, ready to count off the facts on my fingers, "Number one, you pretty much only like movies where someone dies. This does nothing to distract me from the fear I have of you killing me in my sleep. Number two, it's usually the boringly hot guy who ends up dead as opposed to the generically hot chick, which kind of makes me think that you're secretly a lesbian separatist or worse. But at least I have a chance that you won't actually kill me in my sleep. Number three, you're a huge dyke, so…attractive women, lots of sex, too much dialogue…none of it good. How did I do?"

"Alright, fine. At least one of those is true. Now, come on," she said, waving me out of the bathroom.

She popped the popcorn, I grabbed the beer—one from her side of the fridge, the other from mine—and collapsed on the couch.

"Hard day, Carlin?" She asked, sitting beside me.

"People suck…don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough."

"But I have good news."

"What's up?"

"I've decided that after all of this…avoidance, I'm finally going to go after my perfect marriage."

Her face lit up, "Seriously?"

"One-hundred percent."

"You should start tonight."

"You think so?"

"Are you kidding me? I say we can only go up from here. Nothing is more romantic than popcorn, beer, and minimal clothing," she said, eyeing my tank top and shorts.

"You're right, let's do it tonight. There's no time like the present," I said, chugging my beer, needing all the confidence I could get, "so what should we say to her?"

"Wait…what?"

"When we call Carmen."

For a second she almost looked disappointed, which was confusing. But I didn't have time to worry about my wife. I was about to get my fiancée back.

"When we call Carmen?"

"Well, I'll need your help obviously. I can't possibly do it by myself…oh my God, do you expect me to do this by myself?"

"Um…no, I just…"

"So do I put it all out there over the phone or just ask to meet her somewhere for lunch tomorrow and do it there?"

"Lunch," she said, unenthusiastically.

"Are you sure?"

"Better question, Spencer. Are _you_ sure? I mean, is this really what you want to do?"

"I'm not going to sleep with her, so you don't have to worry about me affecting this annulment or complicating it or whatever it is that has you making that face at me right now."

"She left you. How many times do you want to have this conversation?"

"I know, but…"

"She left you. It's over. And I'll be honest with you, Spence, I don't even know if all this is really about her," she said, standing up and pacing the floor like…like a potential murderer, "I think this is all about winning. You're not used to feeling like you lost something. But look, the thing is…maybe this is good. Maybe this is a life lesson, ok? Did you ever consider that? Did you ever think that maybe your future is right in front of you?"

"Everyone's future is right in front of them. That's like…the definition of the word 'future' so…"

"Move on! She doesn't like you anymore!"

"Hey, wait!" I said, jumping up, "you don't know anything about it! She was just scared, ok? She was scared of commitment. But we can work on that. I'm reading a book right now…perhaps you've heard of it. It's called _How to Get Your Partner to Commit for Dummies._"

She glared at me.

"What? It's a very good book."

"I'm going to bed."

Wait a minute…

"Are you actually mad at me? Like, are you serious right now?"

She shook her head, "There are people out there that are so much better for you. There are people who just like being with you…talking to you. And not just the person that you're so desperate to convince everyone you are, but the real you. And if you walk away from whoever that may be just to chase some impossible dream you don't even really believe in, you'll regret it."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take."

"Hey, good for you," she said, holding up her hands, "you tell your fiancée that your wife says hello."

She walked out of the living room and down the hall, slamming her bedroom door.

"Spencer?"

"Um…yeah…hi."

"Hey, what's going on?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to lunch with me tomorrow, and um…you know, talk about…us."

"We can talk, Spencer, but I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about us."

"You're not?"

"No, I mean…I miss you. But if you're trying to suggest that there's even a slight possibility of us getting back together anytime soon then…"

"Look, I'm willing to take this one step at a time…whatever you want."

"You're married," she said, bluntly.

Oh yeah. That whole "marriage" thing.

"I know, but…"

"And she's really nice."

"How would you know?"

"We ran into each other a couple weeks ago. I thought she would've told you."

"No, she didn't say anything."

"Oh, well anyway…"

"Yeah, um…"

"Do you want to meet at Lori's Diner tomorrow? I'll be downtown all day."

"Sure," I said enthusiastically.

God, how I hated Lori's Diner.

"Good, so I'll see you then."

"Bye, Spencer."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone, throwing myself backwards onto my mountain of pillows.

I was one lunch away from getting her back.


	18. Chapter 18

_**If you haven't seen, I posted the first chapter of another story of mine, "The Architecture of Falling." Thanks for all the encouragement, guys. It means so much. Enjoy!**_

**ASHLEY**:

"No, she's not."

"Yes she is."

"Ashley, this is ridiculous."

"No it's not. Dude, have you thought about it though? Like, have you seriously processed that shit?"

"No, because it's ridiculous."

"See. That's your problem! You don't think about things. Let the idea marinate or whatever and then get back to me."

"Look at me, Ashley. And I'm serious, ok? I need you to get this through _your_ head…"

"This should be really good," I said, throwing my head back in laughter.

Malibu Ken was about to give me—Ashley Davies—some sort of life lesson. He must've eaten a fortune cookie recently. They were usually the source of his extensive spiritual knowledge.

"Laugh if you must, but the reality is, Spencer isn't having lunch with Carmen to make you jealous. She's having lunch with Carmen because she's not over her yet. These are just the facts."

"No, Tiger Beat. _Your_ version of the facts."

"Ashley! I've got your back all day long. You know that. And I know you want to make things work with Spencer, but in order to get your chance, you've got to be tuned into reality. The reality is, she's still working through her old relationship."

"That's stupid."

"Ashley…"

"Stupid."

"What's stupid?"

"You."

"Ash…"

"No, look…this chick, this ex of hers…Carmen…she sucks, dude."

"How would you know?"

"I ran into her awhile ago."

"When?"

"Um…on that day we went and had breakfast."

"Where?"

"Where did we have breakfast?" I ask, confused.

"No, where did you run into her?"

"Oh, at a bookstore."

"Which one?"

"Oh my God! Why does it even matter? Like, why are you a details whore all of a sudden? Are you secretly writing my biography…is that what this is?"

"So did you guys have a conversation or what?" he asked, sipping his beer.

"I like the way you're choosing to ignore me. That's fine."

"You want me to actually answer that question? Ok, here we go. No, I'm not writing your biography. Are you happy? Will you go on with your story now?"

"Yes, I will. Ok, so I ran into her and she…I don't know, dude. I just got this vibe, you know? She's bad news."

"How long did you talk to her?"

"A few minutes."

"And you got all of that from a few minutes of talking?"

"I'm very insightful, my friend," I said with a grin, tipping my beer towards him before finishing it off, "besides, any girl other than Ashley Davies is bad for Spencer Carlin."

"I love that you can turn on your feelings so easily."

"What can I say? She sort of grew on me…like a…like a neurotic fungus."

"That's very romantic."

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he said, smiling.

"So, when are you and the artist putting it in writing…or paint, or plaster, or whatever her medium is?"

He laughed, "We're not. But don't get me wrong, things are going well."

"That's it?"

"What?"

"Where's the passion, Tiger Beat? Are you still…you know…are you two still…"

"Yes."

"How is it? Got her climbing those mural-covered walls or what, brother?"

"I'm not talking about it."

"You're so boring! All I'm asking for is the details!" I said, quickly realizing something, "you're a hypocrite."

"Now I'm a hypocrite?"

"Obviously."

"How am I a hypocrite, Ashley?"

"You want the details of my life, and yet when I ask you a simple question…"

"I've never asked you about your sex live—ever! You've always wanted me to, but I never have. Even when you wanted to give me the lowdown on that night you spent with that extra from 'Friends.' And yeah, occasionally I'll ask you what's going on in your life. But that's only because if I don't, then you'll end up married to a woman your barely know."

"We were on vacation. I needed a souvenir."

"Great."

"I'm kidding. Look, keep your private life private if you want. That's cute, man. You and the artist can do whatever you want."

"Thanks for allowing us our freedom."

"Hey, no problem."

"So, how are you going to win over the wife, Ash?"

"Sex."

"That's not a good plan."

"Why?"

"Because she would have already come around by now if it was all about the sex, no?"

"Shut up."

"Just saying."

"Alright, fine. I don't exactly have a plan yet on how to win her over."

"Can I tell you what I would do if I were you?"

"I don't know, can you?"

"You've got to tell her how you feel."

"No way. What if she says she doesn't feel the same way?"

"Do you think she does?"

I thought about it. The frequency of her casual smiles. The way she'd brush past me in the kitchen (this is a large kitchen, people). The fact that she left very little space between us on the couch while watching Netflix (this is a large couch, comrades). And the biggest sign of all, you ask?

The coffee.

Without my knowledge she had ordered me the coffee I liked from Seattle whole-bean, and began grinding it herself. And yeah, I can admit it. It tastes better.

Like, slightly.

"Yeah, I think she does," I answered with an affirmative nod.

"Then maybe you might have to actually…you know, knock down a few of your own walls and get romantic."

"Romantic? Tiger Beat, I'm saturated in romance, ok?"

"No you're not."

"Whoa, what?"

"You're not, Ashley. Yes, you talk to women in a way that gets you laid. But it's not romance and you know it."

Hey, in my own defense, let me just say that for a long time the entire point of the chase was to lure a woman back to my impressive apartment, hit "play" on the Portishead, and commence to the greatest sexual experience of the chosen woman's life.

The entire point.

"Ok, so what do I do?" I asked, reluctantly.

"Have you guys ever hung out outside of the apartment?"

"Um…no."

"Then take her out. Mix it up a little bit, Ash. Show some effort. Show her that you're trying. And then…"

"And then?"

"And then just tell her the truth, because that way you avoid all the angst."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"Because you know I'm right. Now," he said, slamming his hands down on the bar, "let's get some nachos."

--

**SPENCER**:

I changed my shoes twice.

My suit three times.

My mind, never.

I was about to get her back whether she liked it or not. I was going to go after her with a rampant fervor like she's never seen.

I won't give any details—of course—but in the fourth grade, I might've fought a girl over a particular jump rope we both wanted. She may or may not still be missing teeth because of it. I can't exactly say. You know, for legal reasons.

"Spencer, hey," she said, sliding into the chair across from me.

I had arrived an hour early at the diner, terrified that some sort of natural disaster might occur and keep me from being on time. Luckily, nothing did. But just in case, I had brought along my all-in-one survival kit that I found on ebay. You really can't be too careful, you know.

"Should we hug, maybe?" I asked, awkwardly holding out my arms.

"Um…sure?"

I stood to embrace her, holding on just a second longer than what's considered standard in an effort to fully inhale that amazing perfume.

God, I love Dolce.

"Did you already order or…"

"No, I was waiting for you. In case we wanted to discuss our entrée choices."

She laughed and shrugged, "Ok, so how are you?"

"I'm great, and you?"

"I'm awesome actually."

"Awesome? Really?"

"Yeah…are you surprised?"

"No, I mean…no. Is there um…a specific reason or…"

"It's not a romantic thing, if that's what you're getting at. I'm not dating anyone else."

"Oh. Not that it's any of my business, but I can't say that I'm ready to see you move on…in fact, I'm hoping that there's still a chance for us."

"Spencer…"

"Carmen, I thought that after awhile you would come to your senses and realize that we're meant to be. And then I'll forgive you and we can live happily ever after in marital bliss!"

"Was getting married to another woman part of your plan to show me how much you want me back?"

"Oh, come on. That's really a _minor_ detail. This is about us!"

She shook her head, "You haven't changed, Spence."

"You need me," I said, grabbing her hands, "you need me in your life! And we're so good together. Don't you remember how good we were together?"

"No."

"See? Now you're just trying to be hurtful…which is a sign that you still have unfinished business in this relationship."

"You wanted to control me…you wanted to change me and my life and basically everything that made me who I was. And guess what? You did. Because now I'm busy trying to find out who I really am and before I was content to let you make that decision for me."

"I know who you are."

"No you don't. You know who you want me to be," she said, pulling her hands free of mine, "those people aren't the same."

I nodded, "Ok, so what would it take? Tell me. What would I have to do to convince you I'm different?"

"I don't know."

I was starting to realize that maybe this time I wasn't going to walk away with the prize. Maybe this was a fight I couldn't win. And in the end, maybe I would finally be the one to walk away with a black eye and missing teeth.

"So this is just it, huh? You don't like me."

"It's not that I don't like you. It's just that I don't need you."

"Wow…ok."

"I'm sorry."

"You know what, Carmen?" I said, inhaling deeply, "I've spent my whole life trying to organize other people's lives. Because I'm a fixer, you know? I fix things. It's all I've ever wanted to do since I was a little girl. And I thought that one day, I would meet someone who could fix me and I'd let them…I'd let them. You're not that person for me."

"No, I'm not."

"No, you're not."

"So…"

"You're not."

"We've established that, ok? I get it."

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she said, acknowledging the waitress who was now standing beside our table, "hello…uh…yes, I'm ready to order."

I barely listened as she told the waitress exactly how she wanted her eggs cooked. Instead, I took several deep breaths, lamely attempting to process what had happened in less than five minutes. As I've said, I had never been good at giving up what I wanted, whether I truly wanted it or not.

"Spencer, are you ready?"

"What?"

"Are you ready to order?"

"Oh, I'll have a garden salad and whatever your soup of the day is."

Our waitress walked away, leaving me alone with Carmen again.

"We can still be friends, right?" she asked, but we both knew it wouldn't be possible.

"Sure."

"Good."

"Good."

But a very awkward, unfriendly silence followed. Because now that we had said everything, there was nothing left to say.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Hey, guys. Thanks so much for reading and for your feedback. And for those of you who think it would be cool to hang out with me, I think you're over-estimating my charm a bit, but you're welcome to come drink a ton of espresso with me in San Francisco. I'll wait. Enjoy the chapter!**_

**ASHLEY**:

She was a wreck.

A sobbing, red-faced, object throwing, sudden over-looker of my boots in the middle of the hallway, nearly tripping her and causing great physical damage in addition to the emotional damage she was already feeling…wreck.

And I couldn't be more thrilled.

This was it, guys. This was my chance to swoop in there like the opportunist I'd always been and show her that I was capable of throwing out a bit of compassion and validation—kind of like a patron at the strip club of emotions.

That's right.

Compassion.

Validation.

I had gotten myself a shiny, plastic library card (yeah, with my name on it) and spent the entire afternoon reading sociology books on communication and coupling. I now had an intellectually romantic repertoire that could put romance novel heroes to shame. Not to mention a far-superior head of hair.

And probably more time on my hands.

"Spencer, are you ok?" I asked, as she thrust herself backwards on the couch.

She would've gone to her room, slammed the door, and blasted the Michael Bolton had she desired solitude in her misery. But there she was, folks. On _my_ couch. Practically begging me to ask her how her little lunch had gone with the inadequate, boring ex-fiancée.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, between sobs.

I had never seen anyone more ready to talk about "it."

"Spencer, come on. It'll make you feel better."

"It's over."

"It's over?"

"She dumped me."

"Again, huh?" I nodded, knowingly.

"Yes, _again_. And I can't believe I put myself in a position where she could do it twice. Why didn't I learn the first time?"

"No one learns the first time. If people learned the first time, there would be no such thing as 'the first time.' It would be called 'the first and last time' which sounds horrible. A real mouthful, you know?"

She laughed, "I wish I could express myself more maturely, but all I can say…is that this really, really sucks."

"I know."

"You tried to stop me. I should've listened to you."

A casual admittance that I'm worth listening to? Oh yeah, ladies and gentlemen. She's digging Ashley Davies—like a hungry, post-Vietnam gravedigger named Alvin who gets his jollies eating people's dead hands.

Too much?

"I'm taking you out tonight," I said, using every bit of will power I have not to brush the fallen hair out of her face.

"You're taking me out?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm not in the greatest mood, Ashley."

"Oh, really? Because you look positively ecstatic."

"Shut up," she said, wiping away stray tears, "plus, we have the gala in a couple days and I haven't memorized my speech."

Gala? Gala? I searched the ol' memory bank for this supposed "gala" but all I could come up with was some girl I was slept with in high school named "Kayla."

"What gala?" I finally asked, preparing myself for a scolding.

"Oh, you know…that stupid thing you said you'd go to with me. It's for my job."

"Was I drunk when you asked me?"

"Of course."

"Makes sense."

"You don't have to go if you don't want to. It's not a big deal."

"You're making a speech. It sounds like a big deal."

"Yeah, well…it's completely up to you. It's going to be boring and uptight and…"

"Catered?"

"Very much so."

"Then I'm there," I said, grabbing her hand, "it's a date."

"I guess it only makes sense that I would bring my wife."

"That's me. I'm your wife."

"That is you," she said, attempting another pained laugh.

"We should go out."

"Ashley, I really can't do it tonight. I feel like shit…I look like shit…"

"No, you look beautiful."

"You're a terrible liar."

"No, I'm an excellent liar. But I'm not lying this time. You're always beautiful—always."

She stared at me, an amused smile playing at her lips. She gripped my hand tighter, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I'd like to say it was awkward. She and I on that infamous couch, not speaking.

Just staring.

Holding hands.

Because if I could, then maybe I'd be able to convince myself that I was simply crazy. That I was positively insane for liking her. There was no more exciting challenge. Just pure, agonizing vulnerability. I had never wanted to protect someone in my entire life as much as I wanted to protect this fragile blonde across from me. All she wanted to do was plan things and organize shelves.

Was that really so wrong?

"Spencer…"

"I'm tired," she said, and I suddenly felt see-through. It was as if she could see every thought process. Every realization.

"You're always tired."

"Let's go to bed."

Um…

"What?"

"I don't want to be alone, Ashley," she said, shaking her head, "will you please just…"

"Absolutely," I replied. A little too quickly, I might add.

"Good."

She led me by the hand she had yet to let go of, down the hall and into her room. I was immediately punched in the face by three Air Wick plug-ins and a vase of cinnamon potpourri. But it didn't matter.

"Lay down," she instructed, waving me towards the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," she said, lying down next to me, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Ok."

"Ok."

We lay in silence, several inches apart. It was the first time in recent memory that I had been in a girl's bed and not known what to do.

"Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

"Have I ever told you about my family?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. But you should, because I'd like to hear about your family."

"I grew up in Ohio and um…I had this very typical, suburban upbringing. I'm sure from the outside everything looked fine, but…but my dad was an alcoholic and my mom was always working. So I took care of him a lot. And I always felt like it was implied that I had to be perfect because the last thing we needed in my family was another problem, you know? So I tried to do everything right because I didn't want my mom to have to worry. Like, she already had her job to worry about and my dad so there was no room for my…imperfections or whatever. But don't get me wrong, my dad was more of a closet alcoholic so he still went to work and he still seemed relatively intact, but late at night or on weekends when there was no one to impress, he became a different person."

I turned to face her, her eyes far away in the past.

"So, it was your job to maintain the illusion of normalcy?" I asked, softly.

"You know what? That's a great way to put it. That's exactly what my job was in that house. I swept up the broken glass and woke him up for work on Monday."

"What's your mom do?"

"She's a surgeon."

"Oh…wow."

"Yeah, so like I said, she wasn't home a lot."

"Spencer, I don't mean to go all 'Dr. Phil' on you, but…"

"I know. It explains a lot about who I am now. I'm practically textbook, right? Because I'm still sweeping up the glass and making sure that everything looks perfect. I know."

"Our parents shape us, but only to a certain extent. I realized early that I had to like, overcome my mother or whatever, you know? I had to figure out who I was without her. It's basically like returning to infancy once you're away from them…starting all over again."

"I thought I had done that. But lately I feel like nothing's changed at all."

"Do you still talk to them?"

She sighed, "A little bit."

She looked as though she might cry all over again.

"Spence, look at me," I said, waiting for her eyes to focus on mine, "you're not them. And you don't have to hide any sort of evidence anymore, ok?"

"When did you go and get all smart on me, Davies?"

"Actually I stole that line from 'Teenagers on the Edge.' I thought you'd recognize it," I said, stone-faced.

"You're lying."

"Ok, so I am."

She leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on my chin.

"That was weird, my friend. Try again," I whispered.

"I can't help it. I like chin kisses. But if you insist…"

She leaned forward again, this time kissing my nose.

"No!" I squealed.

"What?" she laughed, "that was a perfectly good nose kiss!"

"Right here," I said, tapping my lips with my index finger.

It was risky, I know. But I wanted to kiss her so badly, I could barely comprehend the consequences of taking a chance.

"Right there?" she asked, licking her lips unconsciously.

I nodded, but said nothing.

"Ok…"

Literally the second her lips touched mine, I grabbed the back of her head, pulling her closer. I was beyond finding appeal in teasing. I just wanted it all at once.

And surprisingly, she released a low moan directly into my open mouth. Maybe I wasn't alone in all my agonizing want.

"Ashley…" she whispered, pulling back, "is this a good idea?"

Due to our close proximity, it was hard to meet her eyes, "I don't know."

"Should we stop?' she asked, her hands already trailing underneath my tank top.

"No."

And so we didn't.


	20. Chapter 20

**_I'm exhausted, so not much time for an intro here, but thanks for reading and giving great feedback. I'm glad people are still along for the ride. Next update is Tuesday. See ya then, and enjoy!_**

**SPENCER**:

"No, no, no, no…no, we can't. We can't."

"Ashley…"

"Look, I'm sorry. I seriously am…but I can't."

"You can't?" I ask, looking up at her.

I was two remarkably small steps away from going fucking postal. I had already been refused by one woman that day. I wasn't willing to let it turn into a goddamn "Sorry, Spencer, But I Can't" parade.

"Ashley, look at me…"

"I'm already looking at you."

"Then just listen. I want to do this, ok? I'm not pretending you're Carmen, I'm not doing this to forget about her either…I'm doing it because I want to," I said, trailing my fingertips along her back, "but if you don't want to, that's a totally different issue. But I don't need you to try to give me an out or anything, you know? I know how to say 'no.' They sent around the elderly lady to tell us all about 'good touch/bad touch' in Ohio too, alright? Her name was Linda, and she was exquisite."

"Was she hot?"

"Who, Linda?"

"Yeah."

"Probably…you know, in the 1950's."

She laughed, "1950…that's a good year for hotties."

"So are you doing the abstinence thing all of a sudden, Davies? Is that what this is?" I asked, not wanting to completely disregard the track this conversation had originally followed.

"Abstinence?" she said with a smile, "what's that?"

"Fine, then tell me what's going on."

"Spencer…"

"No, I'm serious. Because you know what? I know you want to fuck me."

"How would you know that?"

I snaked one hand down her side and closer to the increasing warmth I could feel against my thigh. Either she kept a miniature heater in her front pocket or she was happy to be on top of me.

"Gotcha," she said, catching my hand and moving it back to its original spot, "ok, so you're right. But Spencer, you just had your heart broken today. And despite the fact that you consistently insist you know what's best for…well, everyone, I'm not so sure you're ready to have sex with someone else."

"Since when do you care?"

She looks offended, and it confuses me, "Since when do I care? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am. Look, you and I…we've sort of created this strange acrimonious relationship lately. Ok, not acrimonious…better than acrimonious. But still, it's a bit strange considering the circumstances, and you know…it's great. It really is. But tonight you've been all…considerate and dare I say compassionate and it's freaking me out a little bit."

"Why would that freak you out?"

I shook my head, "I don't know. Because frankly, it's more than I expect from you. It goes above and beyond simply getting along for the sake of getting along. It means that there's something more between us…be it friendship or otherwise."

She avoids eye-contact suddenly, shifting uncomfortably on top of me. She's giving me erratic when I wanted erotic. Gentle warmth where I needed impossible heat. And it wasn't adding up.

"Ashley, will you please just tell me what's going on?" I begged softly.

She remained silent, and I nodded once before pulling her down the remaining inches between us and holding her. Her face buried in my neck, my hands buried in her hair. I had no idea what was wrong, and I knew I wouldn't find out in that moment. But that didn't stop me from wrapping my arms around her and enveloping her in one of those hugs that is simply awkward. You're both over-heating, your limbs are becoming cramped and medically vulnerable, you're just desperate to pull away but finding it rude to initiate. However, you do it because despite how utterly excruciating it is, it's what the other person needs. It's what she needed.

She pulls away first, and I take a deep breath. I've never been good at truly comforting someone. Just making sure other people don't see that the person needs comforting. Welcome to a beautiful career in interior design.

"Are you ok?" I ask her, moving so that we're side-by-side.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Upset that you've revealed yourself to be a sexual coward?" I joke.

"Something like that."

"Yeah, well…it's ok. You're probably right. I should just process this Carmen thing, you know?"

"Uh-huh."

"Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you stay, though? We don't have to…"

"Of course."

"Good…ok, so…"

"Goodnight," she says, shifting so that I'm staring at her back.

She's so close and still I feel like we're further apart then we've been in days. But there's nothing I can do.

"'Night."

**ASHLEY**:

They're going to revoke my "Cool Guy" card for this one, boys and girls. I mean, there she was, telling me she wanted to sleep with me and what do I say, kids? No.

I said no.

No?!

I've refused sex twice in my life. One time I was propositioned by a girl named Angela who smelled like she had sprayed herself down with peanut butter and jelly sandwich perfume.

I'm allergic to peanuts, so…

No thanks.

Then there was the one time…let's just put it this way: We went for drinks. I ended up having to pay for her dry cleaning. I fell asleep in my car.

As you can see, those were unfortunate circumstances. But never had I been lying on top of a hot blonde who was asking for it and instead said, "Oh, sorry. I can't because I'm a fucking asshole who makes bad decisions."

Ok, so that's not exactly what I said, but let's be honest here, folks. I might as well have painted the words, "I'm actually a terrified thirteen year-old girl" on my stupid face and set off running down the hallway in search of a chastity belt and a virgin daiquiri.

Who was I? I mean, seriously. Who was this version of Ashley Davies? It was as though I was becoming someone else. Someone with scruples.

I lay awake watching her sleep. And I was completely enthralled. Somehow even the mere fact that she breathed like a fucking human being seemed like the most amazing thing in the world just because she was the one doing it.

Shut up. I know what you're thinking, and no. It's not sweet. It's pathetic. Pathetic because unrequited love sucks. Not having your love requited by your actual, technical wife? Yeah, even more pathetic.

I had to get out of there. So I tried to quietly slip out of bed, but it was no use. She slept lighter than a serial killer and a mother with a newborn combined.

"Ashley?"

"Yeah, I'm right here."

"But you're leaving?"

"Um…"

"Don't leave," she said, stretching, "please don't leave."

"I can't sleep," I said honestly.

But I found myself lying back down.

"Then I won't sleep either," she said.

"What?"

She sat up, "I said, then I won't either. We'll talk…or whatever…"

"No, no. You need your sleep. I can go to my room or play some Hero or something."

"I mean, if you want…or you can stay."

Was it my imagination or was this my chance? I mean, wasn't she practically sending me a goddamn invitation to her nether-regions?

Yes.

Yes, she was.

But could I handle sleeping with her?

No.

No, I couldn't.

"I can't stay, Spence."

"Why not?"

I remembered Aiden's words. His wise, wise words about being honest with her. About the pain that could be avoided if I was willing to put all my cards on the table.

And then I promptly ignored them. What did he know? The guy had a collection of argyle sweaters, for Christ's sake.

"I just can't."

She shrugged, but she looked surprisingly disappointed, "Ok…goodnight, I guess."

Maybe it was the sudden look of disappointment. Maybe it was the want in her voice. But whatever it was, I found myself throwing clothes on the hardwood floor—my own. And before either of us realized what was happening, I was standing in front of her wearing nothing but my God-given outfit and a nervous smile.

"You sure know how to make an exit," she said with a smirk, standing so she could follow suit—birthday suit, that is. Yeah, I know. Cue the drumroll.

And unlike the first time, where clothing was optional and mostly remained intact, she was right there in front of me in all of her perfect, golden beauty.

I had to maintain an ounce or two of confidence here or else I was going to be too nervous to even play Checkers with this woman.

"Come here," she said, sitting down on the bed.

I walked slowly over to sit at her side, smiling awkwardly.

"Ashley, you're shaking."

No kidding, princess.

"I know."

She guided me backwards on the bed until I was lying flat beneath her. Our roles from earlier completely reversed.

"Are you ok?" she asked, mindlessly trailing her fingers over my sensitive nipples.

"Um…yeah. Of course."

"Are you sure?"

She leaned down and captured the left one in her mouth, sucking hungrily.

"Uh-huh…" I breathed.

I really should've listened in Biology class because now I had to wonder if I could actually die from being so turned on. I mean, that's impossible, right? Might be time for another trip to the library.

"Am I going to have to talk you through this, Ashley Davies?" she asked.

God, that voice. She could talk me through just about anything.

Mechanical Engineering.

Car repair.

TiVo.

"I suppose so."

She nodded, obviously quite comfortable with a position of control. She grabbed my hand, leading it down to where she was wet and warm.

Oh God.

"Do you feel that?"

Um…words. Words. I needed words.

"Do you feel how bad I want you inside me right now?"

I could only think of one word.

It was "purple."

And that wasn't going to help me much.

"Ashley…" she sighed, sliding two of my fingers deep inside, "please."

**SPENCER**:

I'm pleased to say that after several moments, no talking was necessary. Ashley was on top of me, matching each of my gyrations with deep, desperate thrusts.

It felt incredible.

It felt incomparable.

It felt…

"I love you."

Say what?

"What?"

"I love you," she said, ceasing her movements and looking directly into my eyes, "I'm in love with you."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Hey, guys! It's Tuesday and therefore time for an update. The feedback is awesome, and I'm glad you're liking the story. Enjoy!**_

**SPENCER**:

I was speechless.

No, I mean, I was literally speechless.

And I'm not sure if anyone's made you aware of this but silence during sex is typically a negative. Because, ladies and gentlemen, silence means displeasure. Silence means confusion—yes, confusion. Silence means you're not getting a call the next day, a text message, or a carrier pigeon bearing the message "sex between us will happen again in the future." So excuse me for my silence—which meant none of those things—but I literally had no words. Her sudden confession caught me completely off-guard and it wasn't often that I was rendered this way, ok? Especially during sex.

Unless I count that one time Carmen bought me an unappreciated plastic, purple birthday gift with matching harness. I'm not a cowgirl. I'm an interior designer consultant.

"I'm sorry," she said, hiding her face in the crook of my neck, "I have no idea why I just said that."

"You don't?"

She shook her head, but refused to reveal her face. It remained hidden, her breath warm and heavy on my skin.

"Ashley, it's ok."

"No, it's not."

"Will you look at me please?"

She hesitantly left the crook of my neck and met my eyes.

"I think this happens, Ash. I mean, I think people accidentally say things they don't mean during sex."

She looks at me for a moment before nodding carefully, "Uh-huh."

"And it's ok. I'm not going to freak out or anything."

"You're not?"

"No, I know that it was just like a…like a slip or something, you know?"

"Right."

"Right."

"Spencer, but I…"

"Should we just go to bed, maybe? Let's sleep."

"I need to sleep in my own room," she says, pushing off of the bed and walking towards the door.

I felt an instant chill where her body had been and quickly buried myself beneath my down comforter.

"Wait, are you mad?" I asked, surprised at her tone.

"No."

"You sound mad."

"Well, I'm not."

But she was. It was so glaringly obvious, I was almost offended that she denied it.

"Ashley, if I said something that…"

"Goodnight, Spencer," she said, slamming the door behind her.

-------------------------------------

"Ashley's mad."

She glared at me, shaking her head, "No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. Just admit it. You're mad."

"Should we get a pitcher? Is anyone else thirsty?" Aiden asked, casting a nervous glance at Chelsea.

"I'm not mad," Ashley said, pretending to read her menu.

"Oh, really? So the silent treatment you've been giving me all day or…or the fact that you turned down my offer for an hour of Guitar Hero before we left the apartment…"

"Spencer, I seriously don't want to talk about this right now. I want to get drunk to the point where I forget how to urinate on my own. Do you understand? And then I want to call a cab, spend the duration of the ride paranoid that the driver is going to murder me, arrive safely at home, and collapse on my bed. I want to wake up in the morning to lots of surprises from the night before. In fact, I want to step in those surprises and feel them between my bare toes, ok? But one thing I don't want to do is sit here with our friends and have a fight with you."

"Number one—gross. Number two, who said we were fighting? I never said we were fighting. I said you were mad, and excuse my outlandish desire to know why. I'm just crazy I guess. Absolutely insane, because I want to know why the person I'm living with is acting like I don't exist. Thank God I'm in therapy, because I must be a real threat to society."

"You know why!" she yelled, "and that's what I hate about you, Spencer! You just ignore everything that scares you and then you want to sit here and pretend that you're goddamn clueless. Hell no, I'm not about to sit here and play along like an idiotic puppet."

"Oh wow! Ok, great," I say, throwing my hands up in frustration.

"Wings would be good," Chelsea said, pointing to her menu.

Aiden nodded with dramatic encouragement.

"Even if I told you," Ashley continues, turning around to face me, "you wouldn't get it. It would be a complete waste of my fucking time. Just like this stupid fucking marriage."

For some reason it stung, settling awkwardly in the back of my throat. But I swallowed it down and prepared myself for a jab to her armor.

"I always like the artichoke dip here. It's seasoned really well…kind of spicy, though," Aiden said, ignoring the brawl occurring directly across from him.

But there was nothing to see anyway. I couldn't make the list of insults I had mentally written down exit my mouth. So I just sat there—mouth agape—wondering what was wrong with me.

"I'm going to the restroom," Ashley says, slamming her open hands down on the table before disappearing into the crowd of patrons.

She wasn't going to get away that easily. I was breathing hard, riled up in anger. How dare she bring us right back to square one after weeks of progress!

Oh no.

Spencer Carlin wasn't going to take it. Not lying down. Not standing up. Not sitting in a booth with two very confused and uncomfortable people that appeared to be very much in love.

Assholes.

So I jumped out of the booth, bobbing and weaving through sweaty, intoxicated bodies until I had finally made my way inside the tiny restroom. She was standing in front of the mirror, her hands holding onto the sink as though it was an anchor. The lone purple light bulb bathed her in surreal light, heightening everything about the situation.

Her eyes met mine uneventfully, almost as if she expected me to follow her. I hated it when people made me feel predictable.

"What's going on?" I asked, closing the gap between us.

My own tone surprised me. It didn't match the anger I felt at all, instead sounding calm and even.

"Nothing."

"Really? That's how you want to handle this right now?"

"Spencer…"

"Look, last night was…weird. I know that. And I'm not ignoring it, ok? But I don't know what to do. And I don't know how to make it go away."

"I don't want it to go away," she says, shaking her head, "that's the thing. I don't want it to go away."

"Then what do you want?" I ask, suddenly whispering for a reason I'll never fully understand.

"You already know."

"Stop telling me that I already know, because I obviously don't."

"You do."

I laughed, fighting the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her into submission, "Ok…fine."

I turned to leave, but she must've sensed it was coming because she grabbed my hand.

I promise you I'm not predictable.

"I want…" she trailed off, her eyes closing, "I want you."

"To what?"

"No, that's the end of the sentence. That's it. I just…I want you."

I nodded before pressing into her, pushing her backwards into one of the two stalls. I had it closed and locked before she could speak, and my hands pulling down her jeans before she could even comprehend what was happening.

She smelled absolutely intoxicating. A scent that I didn't recognize. And it only made me want to fuck her that much more. She was propped against the side of the stall, my hands buried in her hair, her hand pressed forcefully against the small of my back. And it only made me want to fuck her that much faster. Her eyes met mine, basically daring me to actually do what it was that I wanted to do so desperately. Daring me to actually do it with our friends waiting for us on the other side of the restroom door. And it only made me want to fuck her that much harder.

The second I felt how wet she was, I moaned my anticipation into her ear and she shivered in response.

"Spence? Ashley? Are you guys in here?"

Chelsea.

She had ruined many things for me. The ending of "Runaway Bride." Twizzlers. An entire city in Missouri. My college appreciation of Russian art. Savage Garden.

But this had to be the winner. I had two fingers ready to make their way into the origin of Ashley's wet heat, her eyes glazed with passion staring back at me in disbelief, and a temporary disregard for the fact that something very intimate was about to take place amidst millions of germs and bacteria.

Thanks a lot, soul killer.

I covered Ashley's mouth with my free hand, keeping her silent until I heard Chelsea's footsteps and the door closing behind her.

"She knows we're in here, Spencer. We're not superheroes. We don't just excuse ourselves to the bathroom and then climb out through the vent to go fight some hardcore crime."

"I know."

"Then what was the point of acting like we weren't in here?"

"I don't know yet."

"You don't know yet?"

"Oh, I know. I know," I said, suddenly remembering, "because I'm going to lie to her. I had forgotten there for a second, but it just came back to me. I'm going to lie. A lot. And if that doesn't work I'm going to bring up something she did to me once and deflect the attention away from us and this bathroom and right back into 2002…or you know, in whichever year the thing she did to me happened. Got it?"

She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. So I unlatched the stall lock and swung it open.

"Oldest trick in the book," Chelsea said, smirking as she leaned against the sink, "the old 'open the door and then let it close so the two people having sex in the bathroom stall think you've left.'"

"I hate small restrooms…where things are all…small…and immature trickery can occur," I mumbled, realizing the trouble I was now in.

Great.


	22. Chapter 22

_**Hello, everyone. Just letting you know there are only about 4 or 5 more chapters left on this story and then...no more. So enjoy it while you can! Thanks for reading, and commenting, and messaging. I love it.**_

**ASHLEY**:

Have you ever tried to milk a cat? I'm not saying that I have. Because, you know…I haven't. But I imagine that it could be only slightly more difficult than making Spencer Carlin see what was right in front of her. And it in this case it was me. Ashley Davies. Right there with a goddamn neon sign, a lighter, and a singing leprechaun named Mike that she found on Craigslist.

Ok, so not really. But how many times can you look at a girl and say, "Hey, you! I sort of more than like you a little? In fact, I kind of want to have your neurotic, unusually clean, unusually well-behaved babies," before you just throw in the metaphorical towel and drown out your sorrows with a stripper you met through your cousin and a gallon of booze? My patience was waning, my moods shifting, my iPod screaming lyrics that make me want to throw myself out of my moving Porsche.

Was this normal? I mean, let's face it here, people. Spencer Carlin is insane, right? Right? Every night I faced the dreaded potential that she would sneak into my room—wearing her ironed Eddie Bauer pajamas—and drown me in a tub of anti-bacterial gel and ammonia. So what was it about her that made me want to pack a lunch and run naïve and free into the toxic sunshine with her?

I don't know.

Maybe it was the occasional smile, the crumbling reservations, the way she came to me when she needed to talk. Maybe it was the intentional softness of her mouth against mine, the notes she leaves on our refrigerator letting me know she'll be late. Maybe it's the fact that I actually like the fact that she leaves notes. I hate notes. Other people's notes. Not Spencer's notes. Spencer's notes are perfect.

After our little run-in with Chelsea at the old "Stall Inn," things got even more complicated. She and the artist weren't speaking—though I was sure it wouldn't last long—and it was driving her crazy. Of course she wouldn't admit it. Oh no. That's not the woman's style. Instead she sent her passive-aggressive text messages about the weather and "how it reminded her of that one day…" Whatever. She made me read doggy-eared articles about the importance of friendship in various monthly publications. She cooked.

She cooked _everything_. I don't know how that helped, but I ate like a fucking king out of Tupperware for quite a few meals.

But nothing about us. Nothing about slamming me up against the bathroom stall and attempting to have her way with yours truly. Nothing about my late-night confessions or anything else. I mean, yeah, she was all nice to me and stuff. Probably her own Martha Stewart-coated way of letting me know she had received the message loud and clear but who knows?

I didn't know.

I really didn't.

So I was really hoping that therapy would do us some good, right? But no. Because all Spencer wanted to talk about was…

"My friend Chelsea, ok? She's mad at me."

"Why is she mad at you?"

"Because…because Ashley and I have been…we um…"

"Spencer and I have been fucking. Or trying to, at least," I said plainly, smiling at Dr. Gallin.

The guy probably masturbated to thoughts of us arguing at night. Might as well give him a little help. I'm a good Samaritan and shit.

"And your friend is upset about this?"

"Not exactly…"

"She's upset because she overheard Spencer saying she planned on lying to her about the fact that she and I are fucking…sorry, _trying_ to fuck."

"Ashley!" Spencer screamed, glaring at me, "he's talking to me. I don't need your help."

"Fine," I replied, crossing my arms.

You try to give a middle-aged man a bit of inspiration and you get yelled at?

Ridiculous.

"Anyway, Chelsea overheard a private conversation between Ashley and I where I may or may not have said I planned on lying to her about my sex life. Now she's mad."

"And this upsets you?"

"Shouldn't it?"

"This is your marriage, Spencer. It's between you and Ashley. I'm more concerned with the fact that you feel as though you must lie about sleeping with your own wife than the fact that your friend is mad at you."

I nodded in agreement, "Exactly."

"That's ridiculous. Chelsea and I have been friends since college, ok? Her opinion of me is important."

"More important than your wife's opinion of you?"

The man was a god.

She looked at me, a strange look of reluctant acceptance in her eyes, "I don't know anymore."

You don't know anymore, princess? Since when? Since you initiated the reason I'm stuck rubbing medicated cream on my back every night?

Never attempt sex in a bathroom stall, people. It's not all "Marina and Jenny" ok? The shit hurts.

"Well, it's something to think about for next time…our last session, actually," Dr. Gallin said, standing up to walk us to the door.

It's amazing how a therapist always seems to know down to the moment when your allotted hour is up. It's like they count down the seconds with the money you've handed over in return for their rhetorical questions and concerned facial expressions.

Spencer looked positively shell-shocked as we walked to the car—yes, the _one_ car that we arrived in together. She kept complaining until my driving speed was at a pace slightly faster than that of my grandmother on a Razor scooter.

Her eyes were sad, and she chewed nervously on her bottom lip. It was one of the few times I had seen her vulnerable. Well, there was that one time she was drunk and chose Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me" on Guitar Hero. But I think it was a different kind of vulnerable.

"Are you ok?" I asked as I heard the "click" of her seatbelt.

"I don't know."

At least we were on the same page for once.

"I don't either."

"What don't you know?"

"I don't know."

She laughed, "Great."

"Look, despite what Gallin says, your friendship with Chelsea matters, ok? And you need to talk to her."

"Ashley, what's going on?"

"What?"

"What's going on…with us? What is this?"

It was the first time she had referred to us as that kind of "us." It was the first time she had acknowledged that something was going on. It was the first time she had truly surprised me.

"I don't know."

She shrugged, "Ok."

"We don't hate each other."

"I thought we had already established that."

"I know," I said lamely.

This was it. I had her full attention. But I couldn't make the most of it. I didn't even know how. If I told her how I felt one more time only to have her reject me, it would be devastating. And my iPod could only handle so much Elliot Smith.

"Ashley, I…I'm glad this happened."

"You're glad what happened?"

"I'm glad that you and I met."

Oh yeah?

"Why?" I pressed.

"I like you."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

She nodded, "I guess that makes sense."

"Spencer, this wasn't a mistake. You and me…this was supposed to happen. I don't know why, but I feel like if I let you…"

She silenced me with her mouth, resting her forehead against mine. And we stayed like that for what felt like years. Her face caressing mine in complete silence while we allowed our presence together to speak for itself.

"I don't want to be with you like that, you know," I said, finally, "this isn't just a sex thing for me and I don't want it to be that for you."

I racked my brain for a time when I had said that and actually meant it.

"It's not like that for me."

"That's what it feels like, Spencer."

She pulls away so she can see my face, "I just got out of a relationship with someone I had promised an entire lifetime to, Ashley. If she hadn't broken off our engagement I would be married. You and I wouldn't even know each other."

"It's meant to be."

Oh God. This was it. I was becoming Dennis Quaid.

"I need time, alright? I don't rush into things. I never have. That's just not who I am."

"I know," I said with a sigh.

"I like talking to you, I like being with you…I like you," she says, grabbing my hand, "but I need time."

"Time for what? What do you do with it that time?"

"I learn what it's like to be with you and accept that I was wrong before…I was wrong about you in the beginning. And it's hard for me to admit to myself that I was wrong, but I'll have to do it. Maybe we go out on a real date. Maybe I stop hiding how I feel and pretending I don't realize how you feel. Then…then we'll see."

I nodded. It was reasonable. I couldn't deny that it was reasonable. But I couldn't deny that everything about who I was wanted to throw caution to the wind, fuck the waiting, and fuck her. And then I wanted to wake up, make her blueberry pancakes and mixed CD's, and have babies. In that order.

"Ok, we'll see," I consented.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."


	23. Chapter 23

_**Thanks for reading and commenting, guys. I appreciate it so much.**_

**SPENCER**:

"I'm not leaving until you talk to me, Chelsea."

"Spencer, I'm seriously not above calling the police."

"You wouldn't call the police on me."

Well, there was that one time but it involved vodka, her sculpting tools, and my first straight girl crush so I think she had some valid and necessary concern for my safety and the safety of others.

"Spence, I'll get over the fact that you think it's ok to lie to me, but you have to give me time."

"Then you'll talk to me?"

"No, then I'll lose your number and send all the clothes of yours I still have to you via the United States Postal Service. Goodbye."

I scowled at her through the partially open front door of her apartment. How dare she throw away years and years of friendship over something as simple as lying and general distrust.

"Chelsea, please. At least let me plead my case so I can go home and get ready for this stupid gala."

She sighed, "What are you wearing?"

"Oh, I picked up this amazing, black Chanel dress…a total classic, with like these beautiful pair of Jimmy Choo's."

"Nice, are they the ones with the straps or without?"

"No, no. No straps. Because remember, I already had that pair with the straps."

"That's right. Those are probably the ones I was thinking of, but yeah, I remember now. How much?"

"Oh God, don't even ask."

"Small fortune, huh?"

"I could've bought a baby for the money I laid down for these shoes. Actually, I could probably purchase a couple of babies. Fuck that. I could be a regular fucking Angelina Jolie for the price of those goddamn shoes."

"Worth every penny?"

"Worth every freaking penny."

"Nice."

"Yeah."

"Goodbye."

She tried closing the door, but luckily I have the reflexes of a caffeinated cat in a room-full of cocaine-coated mice.

"Chelsea!"

"What?"

"We just had a conversation about shoes…you know, like the old days! Doesn't that make you think that perhaps, you're making a huge mistake by shutting me out of your life? I'm your best friend! And yes, I can admit it. I made a mistake too. I lied to you and yes, if you hadn't caught me red-handed, I would've kept lying to you. And you know what? I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But you know what? I'm kind of in a weird place right now, Chels. I mean, I'm falling for my wife and I hate my job and everything is spiraling out of control. But the one thing I could always count on was my friendship with you. I miss you."

"Since when do you hate your job? I've never, ever heard you say that."

"Lately I've been thinking that it's time to go out on my own, you know? Open up my own company and get more hands-on about the work that I love. I miss college when I spent all night in our dorm room trying to figure out how to make my own light fixtures while you yelled at me to go to sleep. That was the life. And now I'm so far away from that. I mean, all I do is tell people what they should do with their million-dollar penthouses. No more paint-stained jeans. No more sewing machine mishaps. Just…"

"A suit and a paycheck?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, this is the time, Spence. You're young and talented and free…and you're white so you can probably get a loan."

"That's true."

"Make it happen or you'll regret it forever."

"You're right."

"I know I am. Now get in here and tell me about Ashley."

I smiled from ear-to-ear before grabbing her in the tightest hug I was capable of giving. I loved her. She was my best friend and I had missed her more than I could've ever predicted. More than Heidi misses L.C. More than "America's Next Top Model" misses Janice Dickinson. More than…ok, you get it. You totally get it.

More than "Saturday Night Live" misses…everyone. Sorry, I had to get that one out.

I followed behind her, collapsing on one of her art-deco barstools.

"So you like Ashley?" she asks, pulling a bottle of wine out of her fridge.

"I'm in that weird place where sometimes it's slightly past like and sometimes it's significantly past like and sometimes it's…you know, other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"I don't know if I'm ready to talk about this."

"Yes you are," she says, passing me a glass.

"I like her a lot. I really do."

"Is the sex still good?"

"I wouldn't know."

"What do you mean?"

"We start and stop, but never finish. That time in the bathroom…"

"My fault. Right."

"So it's not a sex thing because that's only happened once."

"Then you like her for who she is, I suppose. Not bad. Does she know?"

"Yeah, we talked about it. And I think we're going to give it a shot and see what happens."

"Does that mean you stay married?"

"Who knows? Who the fuck knows anymore?"

"Jesus."

"Wow, thanks."

She laughs, sipping from her glass, "I don't know, Spence. But this isn't the kind of thing you should stress over. This is a good thing—a very, very good thing. Let it be good. Don't try to mess it up or control it or whatever it is you do. Just let it be."

"Thanks, McCartney."

"Hey, at least he was the cute one."

"I was always a Lennon kind of girl."

"Ooooh, true. Yeah, you're right."

"And I'd totally let Yoko Ono ruin my band, my friendships, my hygiene, and my coherency. She's hot, and I don't care what anyone says."

"Hey, girlfriend. You have a right to your opinion."

"So how do you feel about me and Ashley?" I asked, trying my best not to pour another glass of wine.

I may or may not need to stop drinking so much.

"Only you, Spencer. Only you would get to live happily ever after with the some chick you used to masturbate to from some insane teen show."

"How do you know I used to masturbate to Ashley Davies?"

"I didn't…until right now…you know, when you just confirmed it."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Awkward."

"A bit. A little bit, actually."

"Ok, well…" I stammered, desperate to change the subject, "anyway, do you think we're…you know, a good match?"

"I think you two compliment each other really well. And I think it's the type of thing where there's a lot to learn and a lot you could teach each other about the value of life. She could teach you how to relax and let things happen and you could teach her the importance of a well-organized sock drawer and the beauty that order can bring. But either way, you grow. There's never anything wrong with growth."

"Yeah…yeah, I guess so."

"Trust me."

"Fine, I trust you. So, how are things with Tiger Beat?"

"Aiden?"

"If that's the name he's going by these days, sure."

"It's funny you should ask, actually."

"Wait, wait. Why are you blushing right now? What is this?"

"He proposed last night."

What? What?!

"What?!"

"Yeah, at the top of Dolores Park where they filmed that scene from 'Sweet November.'"

"Oh, I love that movie!"

"It's so sad, though."

"I know. But it's so fucking sweet."

"I know, right? And Keanu Reeves?"

"Um, no. Charlize Theron. In case you forgot during our little hiatus, I still like vaginas."

"I forget sometimes."

"So wait, he proposed?"

"Yeah."

"What did you say?"

"Um, I said yes."

Hold the phone, people.

"You're getting married?"

"I'm getting married," she said, with an adorable little nod.

And despite the fact that my life was weird and nothing like the life I had planned, I was ecstatic for her. Sad that I had been so out-of-touch that I hadn't noticed how serious she and Tiger Beat had gotten, but ecstatic.

"Chelsea, that's great!" I said, reaching across the counter to give her another tight hug.

"I'm really, really excited."

"Of course you are! You're marrying a guy who can do your makeup for the wedding," I joked, pouring her another glass of wine in celebration.

"You're turning into her."

"Who?"

"Ashley."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

For some reason, I considered it quite the compliment, "Thanks."

"I can't believe you didn't notice the ring."

"Where is it?"

She holds up her hand, and I furrow my brow in confusion.

"Chelsea, I don't see it."

"It's right here," she says, pointing with her other hand to a simple onyx band.

"That's not a diamond."

"You know I don't wear diamonds."

"Oh, I forgot you went all college activist on me. And he remembered that?"

"He did. Because he remembers things about me."

"How sweet."

"I know."

"You guys are amazing together."

"We should all get together tomorrow. A dinner party, maybe?"

"Yes! You know I live for dinner parties!"

"So does Aiden."

I swallowed the joke I wanted to make about her new fiancé, "Excellent."

"It'll be fun."

"I'll tell Ashley tonight…at the gala."

"Oh, that's right. Do you think maybe tonight will be…the night?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"I hope so."

"Make it happen, Spence. You're young and talented and free."


	24. Chapter 24

_I'm late for class! So no time for anything else except a quick "thanks for reading" and a "hey, we have two more chapters!" Enjoy!_

**ASHLEY**:

"Thirty bucks, dude. No joke."

"Thirty bucks? That's ridiculous."

"I know, right? Yeah, when the lady rang me up I nearly committed a homicide…like a crazy, impromptu homicide. But the only weapon I had on me was a pack of Eclipse gum. Though, I gotta say, that packaging is pretty brutal. I've suffered many an unwelcome injury trying to pop out a minty quadrilateral."

"No, no, no. You're not understanding me, Ash. Thirty bucks for a dress is insane! You're going to a gala for Christ's sake!"

"What? So like, fifty…maybe sixty dollars, you think?"

"No, Ashley! People spend thousands of dollars on events like this."

"Are you serious?"

"Very, very serious."

"Oh my God. Dude, if I spend a thousand dollars on a stupid dress, I'm doing _everything_ in it. I'm controlling air traffic in that dress. I'm wearing that shit to go play basketball. It's going to be glued to my body when I die, man. I'm serious. What kind of dress is a thousand dollars?"

"How much did you pay for that gown you wore to the Emmy's?"

"I bought it from a costume shop. So at any time I could've gone from Emmy-nominated teen queen to Disney's Jasmine. So yeah, thirty-five bucks? And I pulled it out for Halloween that year. It was like the dress that kept on giving."

"Wow."

"Hell yeah, epic steal, right?"

"Something like that. Look, Ash, this seems like the kind of thing Spencer would take seriously. And you know what? You should too. Because if you don't, she's going to kill you."

Man, Aiden was moody lately. Obviously the guy had finished the stack of books he borrowed from the library on assertiveness and leadership. Not everyone can handle a library card, people. Some people throw that shit around like it makes them God.

"No, it's not even like that. Spencer is just as freaked out about going as I am. She told me so."

"But she'll have a killer dress. I guarantee you."

"She'll look killer in it, yes. But the dress is probably something she found at the last minute in the back of her closet. Trust me, I know women. Almost as well as I know fashion."

"That being not at all?"

Dude! It's a plastic card with your name on it that gets you books when you want! Not the motherfucking card of life! This dude was eight seconds away from a serious "shhh." I swear to God.

"Hey, kid! I know things, alright?" I said, glaring at him as we sat on my beloved couch, "I'm a woman of wisdom and intuition. So trust me when I tell you…"

I stopped as I heard the front door open. It meant Spencer was home and that uncontrollable grin I hated so much instantly plastered itself to my face. It was like trying to play Poker with your cards glued to your forehead. She saw everything.

"Ash?"

"We're in here," I called back, motioning for Aiden to scoot over in case she wanted to sit down.

"Why are you smiling like that?" he asked, furrowing his plucked brows.

"Shut your mouth, ok? Just shut your mouth."

Spencer walked in, skin aglow, hair perfect, over-sized sweater all Julia Roberts movie-like. Yeah, she was pretty fucking incredible. And she was the woman I accidentally married. Could life get much sweeter?

"Hey, you two," she said, leaning against the doorframe, "what's going on?"

"Ashley needs a dress for tonight."

"No, I don't! I have one. Don't listen to this guy. He's fueled by library books."

"What?" she asks, looking confusedly back-and-forth.

"Nothing. Look, my dress is fine."

Aiden shook his head, but remained silent. Silence really is his best mode of conversation.

"So, Aiden," Spencer said, walking over to sit in the chair across from us, "congratulations. Chelsea just told me."

"Thanks! So I assume that means you two are speaking again, huh?"

"We made up, yeah."

"Wait a second here, ladies," I said, staring at Aiden, "I need to know why you're being congratulated."

"Oh, you know. The proposal," Spencer replied.

Proposal? There was a proposal? What kind of proposal? A grant proposal?

"I proposed to Chelsea last night."

The artist?!

"The artist?!"

"Uh-huh. Yeah, the artist I've been dating named Chelsea. Remember? She's best friends with your wife."

"I know who we're talking about. I just can't believe we're talking about it! Are you serious, dude? You're getting married?"

What kind of girl wants to marry a guy who knows the best place to go and get a spray tan? Who even wants to spend time with that guy besides me? Aiden was my best friend, practically the brother I never had. And now Ms. Bob Ross wants to come in and take away my one stable relationship? Not without a fight, people.

"Yeah, we are. And I'm really excited about it so don't say anything negative, Ash. Do not!"

"Negative?"

"That's right. I know you. And I know that right now you're thinking this means you have to compete with her. But you don't. Because there's always going to be room for you in my life."

"I love that you just became my suburban dad right there, you know? Who's totally leaving my mom for the secretary at his used car lot and giving 8 year-old me the speech he practiced on how the divorce isn't my fault. Bullshit, dude."

"Ashley…"

"No, no, no. So like, all of a sudden you like this chick, huh? She's the one?"

"Ashley…"

"No, that's great. I'm thrilled for you. I really am. I hope you and Frida have a wonderful fucking existence together painting dolphins and butterflies or whatever the fuck you two do!" I yelled, standing up so I could pace the room properly.

"Ashley…"

"No, I'm serious. You don't think I'm serious? Because I'm completely fucking serious!"

"Why are you screaming?"

"Because I can! Because this isn't the goddamn library!"

"Ash, can I talk to you…maybe?" Spencer asked, catching my arm as I paced beside her.

"Spencer, I'm kind of in the middle of…"

But as usual, she disregarded my ranting and pulled me into the kitchen.

"We'll be back!" she called once I was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for an explanation.

"What's up?" I asked, casually.

Her eyes met mine in a sort of strange amusement, and her mouth formed a knowing smile, "That guy in there is your best friend."

"Yeah, I know."

"And he's getting married to my best friend."

"You know, if this whole interior design thing doesn't work out, you have quite the future as a sports commentator."

"He's in love. _They're_ in love…why can't you be happy for him?"

"Because…"

"Because?" she asked, taking the seat across from me.

"I don't know," I answered honestly.

"You want to know what I think?"

I nodded.

"I think you're scared. I think you're scared because not only is this guy your best friend, but he's your father replacement, you know? He's the guy you can always turn to when you need advice or companionship. He knows you. It's like family."

"You've been having sleepovers with Dr. Gallin, huh?"

"Despite his amazing sex appeal, no. I'm just saying, Aiden came into your life and became the dad you never had, and the last thing you want to do is lose him. That makes sense, Ashley. But give him some credit, ok? Hell, give yourself some credit! It's a two-way street, and while Chelsea is an incredible person, she's not you. And he needs you too. There's a way to balance your relationships and I think we'll all work it out…in time."

"You have a valid point or two, Carlin."

"Besides, you leave soon, right?" she asked, fumbling nervously with my microphone-shaped salt shaker.

"What?"

"You start filming…in L.A.?"

Oh, filming. The show. In the chaos of the past couple of months, I had nearly forgotten.

"Yeah…yeah, I do."

"How long does that take? I mean, are you moving there?"

"No. No, of course not. A few weeks, and then I'll be back."

"Good."

"Good?" I asked, eyebrow raised.

"Stop fishing for compliments, Ashley. Yes, I'm glad you'll be back. You know this already."

"It never hurts to have a bit of confirmation, ok?"

"Speaking of which, confirm something for me…"

"Yes, and a harness…it's under the bed."

"Not what I was after, but thank you."

"Oh."

"What are you wearing tonight?" she asked, her face filled with worry.

"A dress."

"What kind of dress?"

"A hot one."

"Ash…"

"Do you have anything I could borrow, actually?"

"Of course."

"Ok, guys. I would love to stay and get yelled at some more, but I have a dinner date with Chelsea and you have a gala to get ready for," Aiden said from the archway of the kitchen.

I stood up, walking over to my golden, manicured best friend and gave him a hug—a sincere hug. The kind they give on "Entourage." Because yeah, I wanted him to be happy. And yeah, I was glad he found someone that made him happy. And yeah, he was my family. So of course I would be at the wedding smiling like an idiot. More importantly, I would be at the Bachelor Party…smiling like an idiot.

"Congratulations," I said, patting him firmly on the back.

"Thank you."

I looked over at Spencer, who stood watching like a proud parent as I drowned like the Titanic in Aiden's orange muscles. We had become a team, she and I. Sort of a weird team, but a team nonetheless. Which is exactly why tonight would be the night I asked the big question.


	25. Chapter 25

Spencer:

She looked like every masturbatory fantasy of my regretful teenage years I had ever had—in front of the television with my Calculus book on my lap—come true. She looked like the wife I had never planned and the coffee I would never drink and the Axe deodorant spray I would never wear, and still she looked perfect. The dress that had uneventfully been sitting in my closet waiting for the opportunity to slide its gold silk over that ridiculous body did not disappoint. And as I watched her make her way across the dance floor, holding two champagne flutes, I had to pause and take it all in. Everything happened so fast. Two months ago, I was clawing across recently scrubbed tile floors, chasing after the image of a life I wasn't even sure I had ever wanted. Now I was here, living a life I know for sure I had never wanted but was readily embracing as a reality that was completely out of my control and yet completely promising.

I didn't sound like myself anymore.

I didn't look like myself anymore.

I didn't feel like myself anymore.

I felt…good. Happy.

"Champagne?" she asked, handing me a flute.

"Thanks."

"There's a frightening lady over there who looks like Cher's great-grandmother. See her?" she asked, pointing, "I had to practically wrestle the woman to the ground just to get this champagne. And who really likes champagne anyway? I hate this shit. Who like, sat down and thought, 'oh, I really like wine. I wonder what wine would look like if it was wearing a tuxedo?' I'll tell you who. Someone on opiates. You know what? I've always wanted to be addicted to opiates. No, no, I take that back. I don't want to be addicted to anything. But if I had to choose an addiction…like, let's say this was an episode of 'Intervention,' I would want to be the chick addicted to opiates. Because first of all, I'm tired of all the girls on there being alcoholics and meth-heads. That's so boring. But opiates? That shit is classy, dude. That's like some shit straight out of Anna Karenina."

"I see you found the free bar?"

"Absolutely."

"And you helped yourself to more than just champagne?"

"Absolutely."

"Spectacular," I said, toasting our glasses.

These people _deserved_ to deal with a drunk Ashley Davies.

"I don't want to offend you or anything, Spencer, but this dress…I look like a wrapped Werther's Original, you know?"

"What is that?"

"You've never had a Werther's Original?"

"I suppose not."

"Best candy ever. We're going to have to get you one. If you see a guy or a gal and they look like they're over eighty years-old and cover their furniture in plastic, let me know because I guarantee you they'll have one."

"I'll let you know," I said with a firm nod, "but trust me, these people aren't the type to cover furniture in plastic. I mean, if some wine spilled on their couch, they would just go buy a new one."

"I should've guessed."

"Oh, and that woman you were talking about earlier? Cher's twin?"

"Uh-huh…"

"Guess how old she is?" I dared, finishing off my champagne.

"200?"

"Nice try. How about 37?"

"You're kidding!" she screamed, suddenly the attention of several people at the table next to us.

"No, I swear to God."

"Why does she look like that? Why does she look like someone rearranged her face on a hot day?"

"Because she's one of those women who thought it would be a good idea to get plastic surgery _before_ she actually needed it. And yeah, it sounds like a good idea at the time…"

"No. No, that sounds like a really bad idea, actually."

"Ok, fine. It does. But I think the results are a lot worse than one can even imagine."

"God, like pregnancy."

"What?"

"Never mind."

She found an interest in her empty flute, twirling its stem around in her fingers. Those long, perfect fingers that I remembered fairly well from the one time we had ever…

"So, when do you want to leave?" I asked, suddenly needing to be anywhere else but here.

"This is your thing, Spence. It's up to you. I'm simply here as your guest and to entertain myself with the horrific results of a scalpel and too much money. In that order."

Before I could grab her hand and make a beeline for the closest exit, I saw a very familiar face smiling down at me.

"Spencer…hey," Carmen said, looking back-and-forth between me and Ashley.

"Carmen, I didn't expect to see you here."

"I work here too, remember?"

"Not really."

I looked over at Ashley, who was still twirling the flute, but with slightly more aggression.

"And Ashley, nice to see you again. We never got together like we had planned," Carmen said, smiling smugly.

"Yeah, well…I was never inspired to contact you," Ashley replied, "Spencer and I…we've been really busy."

What in God's name were these people talking about?

"That's ok. I'm sure Spencer wouldn't mind getting together with me…do you think she would?"

"We were leaving," I said, grabbing Ashley's hand and holding it tightly, "nice to see you, Carmen."

I didn't even give her proper time to respond. I didn't even myself proper time to respond. All I knew at that moment was that I wanted Ashley. And no, I can't tell you where the fuck it came from all of a sudden or why it was all I could think about after two months of ignoring everything, but for the love of all that is holy, I wanted her.

I just did.

Her hands moved effortlessly like the most divine silk as they moved in and out of my wet heat. Slow and steady. Then fast and reckless within moments. She was completely unpredictable with every rhythm and before I knew it, I was riding her fingers to the sweetest orgasm I had ever experienced.

But now it was my turn. And seeing her beneath me, eyes closed, completely naked minus the insistent light shining through the open curtains…

I was rendered completely and utterly speechless. But she wasn't.

"Spencer?"

"Ashley…"

"I've been waiting a really long time for this," she said, as I traced the contours of her abs with my unsteady fingers, "and I honestly don't know how much longer I can wait."

"How long?"

"How long can I wait?"

"How long have you wanted this?"

"Since the beginning."

"Since the first night in L.A.?"

"Since the first night in L.A."

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked, tracing lightly over the sheer blue underwear she had yet to discard.

"I was scared."

She said it so sincerely that I was momentarily taken aback.

"Me too," I admitted.

"No way."

"Yes way."

"You were too good at being a bitch to not mean some of it."

"Maybe you're not the only actress in this marriage."

She raised an eyebrow at me, obviously unconvinced.

"Ok, fine," I said with a sigh, "some of it I meant. But my life had been turned upside down and I needed someone to blame. More than that, I needed someone to take it out on."

"There are better ways," she replied, slowing grinding into me as her lips curled into a mischievous smile.

I nodded, leaning down to meet her waiting mouth. I used my right hand to maneuver what stood between me and full-on Ashley Davies nudity, and I took a moment to think about what would soon commence.

I had a short conversation in my head with my seventeen year-old self, congratulating her on seeing a dream come true. And then I slid two fingers directly into a very wet, very three-dimensional version of the first woman to ever give me an orgasm—first via commercial-interrupted, hour-long, Wednesday night programming—and then via uninterrupted three hour-long foreplay and eventual circular, clitoral stimulation and joint penetration.

For every night alone in my twin bed, underneath the dim light of my plastic, glowing stars, thinking of what I would do to this woman…for every night in a queen bed, underneath the ceiling of a woman I had accidentally married in L.A., thinking of what I would do to this woman, I slid inside her again and again and again. Until finally her back arched and she made a string of sounds that would make symphonies envious.

And there was no Carmen.

No immediate plans.

No desire to do a load of laundry.

It was just me and Ashley.

"Spence, first of all, let me say…we're doing that again in like, seven minutes. Second, I have something to say…or ask, I guess."

"Ok…"

She took a deep breath, suddenly jumping out of bed, one knee on the floor.

Wait a minute…

"This entire experience has been insane. I mean, everyday has been brand new in every sense because I never know what's going to happen with us. And you know what? I love that shit. I love that you've organized my bookshelf. It's so much easier to find everything. And can I say something? Can I be really, really honest?"

I nodded.

"I love your coffee beans…and you're right. It does taste better when you grind it yourself. I can't believe I went around for so long not knowing that…I can't believe I went around for so long without knowing you. Because this…this feels so overwhelmingly right. I know it doesn't make sense on paper. Or you know what? Maybe it does. Maybe it makes perfect sense. Maybe somebody up there in the sky makes people like you for people like me. Maybe this is some of that crazy yin and yang shit that was popular in the nineties, you know? And you could find them at like, every Claire's in every mall in the nation? I digress. The point is, I think this is could really work…and basically what I'm saying here is that I don't want this annulment. I want you. I want to be with you. I want to be married to you."

"Ashley, I know that things have gotten a lot better in the last few weeks, but you and I…"

"There's still a chance that it wouldn't work?"

"Yeah. Should we take that chance?"

"Absolutely. Absolutely we should. Because I know that people are out there getting divorced everyday, and there are marriages that suck, and just like everyone else, I never want to turn into my parents. But you're worth it. You're worth that chance. Trust me, there's no one else I want to be miserable with…there's no one else worth a divorce except for you."

"That might be the best and worst proposal and reasoning I've ever heard."

"I'm a freaking genius," she says with an adorable grin, "I'm on some romantic shit right now, Spencer. This is like, eight times better than 'The Notebook.' You've gotta go with it."

"I want to quit my job and make lamps. How do you feel about that?" I asked, realizing the truth in it as it left my lips.

"Seriously?"

"I think so."

"I think you can literally do anything you want to do. I mean, I say that to a lot of people…all that graduation card, 'Oh, the Places You'll Go' bullshit. But I mean it. I've never met anyone as driven as you are."

"So what are you going to do? You're going to take care of me, Veronica Hurt?"

"I would love to. I would freaking love to take care of you. As long as you promise to keep going to the gym and cleaning this place up and cooking my meals…packing my lunch…"

I laughed, "Those are the requirements, huh?"

"I may or may not be kidding. But the point is, I want you here. And I want you happy. If you want to make lamps and be all Julia Roberts from 'Runaway Bride' then go for it. We'll play Eric Clapton in the background. It'll be awesome."

"Neil Diamond."

"We'll compromise."

"Ashley…"

"All I need is a 'yes.' Say that you'll stay married to me. Let me make you the happiest little lamp-maker in San Francisco."

"Ash…"

"Say yes…just say yes."


	26. Chapter 26

_Well, this is it, my friends. What can I say? I hope you liked it. I know that I had an absolute blast while writing it. When you do a story like this, you really get to test the waters of how weird you are and how the things running through your head relate to the things running through everyone ELSE's heads. And for the most part, I'm a lot less weird than I had originally predicted. Because some of the feedback...WOW. I loved it...even if it was borderline psychotic :)  
_

_ And as I said earlier, most of it was a million times more humorous than anything in any of these chapters.  
I tend to wander into the angsty fan fic world, so to be able to do a light story like this really pushed my limits as a writer, and I thank anyone and everyone who supported me while I did it.  
_

_This chapter isn't long. It's more of an epilogue if anything, but it's in the usual style, so I hope you like it. And for the last time, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope to see you over at "The Assassination of Trust" which is my last story for Spashley._

_  
ENJOY._

**ASHLEY**:

"Vagina."

"Ash…"

"You have a vagina."

"What if I did?"

"Dude, you do. What the fuck do you mean, 'what if I did?' You totally do. It's sitting pretty in those Diesel jeans. And you know what? It got wet like the vagina it is the second you decided to have a dinner party. Super wet when you pulled out the fresh basil to make this dip we're eating right now. And dangerously wet…like caution sign wet the second you brought out these art-deco plates you bought at Target last year. Try to deny that shit, because I was with you when you squealed like a girl and bought the fifty-piece set."

"You bought an Old Spice Christmas gift basket that you kept for yourself. Does that mean you have a penis?"

"No, that means I had an active sex life and a desire to smell like the sweet, natural spices of God's nature. Is that so wrong?"

"Is it so wrong that I enjoy planning dinner parties?"

I thought about it for at least three or four seconds.

"Yes…yes it is, actually."

"Ashley's just jealous because the only thing she can make in the kitchen is…"

"Love. Sweet, married love," I say, sliding my right arm around her waist.

"Spencer, I appreciate the effort but Ash has been railing on me since the second we met," Aiden said with a shrug.

"It's true, lady. The second I met the infamous Vagina Man…it was like magic. I knew I was born to make fun of this kid for the rest of my life. He's a lucky man, and I…a lucky lass. It's a beautiful thing."

"And when you met me?" she asked, eyebrow raised as usual.

"I thought to myself, 'this is a girl who one day is going to trust me enough to let me go off to L.A. for a month and believe me when I tell her I'm not sleeping with every actress I meet at the Kabbalah center.'"

She grinned, nodding knowingly.

People, what I love most about my perfect, gorgeous, intelligent, yoga-bodied wife is that she lets me be myself. Yeah, there were declarations of love, hours spent talking over coffee brewed at midnight, merging Netflix accounts, and soft, gentle sex with tears and whatnot. But that didn't mean the playful banter came to an abrupt halt. It didn't mean the end to our differences. It simply meant we had learned to appreciate them.

"And when I met you," she said, wrapping her arms around me, "I thought to myself, 'this is a girl who one day is going to trust me enough to leave me behind while she films in L.A. for a month and believe me when I tell her that I'm not fucking the chick I met at the hardware store with the incredible tits and cute name tag.'"

"_I_ have incredible tits."

"They're alright. But even so…no name tag, Ash."

"I don't need one. I get confirmation once…sometimes twice a day, that you definitely remember my name."

"And with that," Aiden said, walking towards the swinging kitchen doors, "I make my exit."

The second he was out of sight, her lips found mine. She was sweet and soft and perfect, and being away from her for a month had been the equivalent to a day spent watching a Freddie Prinze Jr. movie marathon.

I wanted to kill myself.

And Julia Stiles, because most things wrong about the world are her fault.

But like the sadistic commercial break she is, in walks Chelsea with a presumptuous grin and a glass of red wine.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but while things are getting hot in here, dinner is getting cold out there."

"We're coming," Spencer says with a sigh.

My wife. The adorable, perpetual sigh-er. The surrounded by wires and scrap metal little lamp-maker. The woman who would never admit that her favorite CD is by Bone Thugs n' Harmony…everything she did made me feel like busting out songs from "Aladdin."

Maybe not the one that kid, Jafar, sings…but everything else.

We followed behind Chelsea all the way to the dining room, hand-in-hand.

"Aiden, everything looks really good," Chelsea said, beaming at her fiancé as we all sit down.

Of course, we spend the first few minutes in chaos. Bowls are passed. Salt is shaken. Wine is poured. Insults are flying.

"You're a regular Barefoot Contessa, Tiger Beat," I say as I butter a slice of sourdough bread.

"Uh-oh, I sense I might be getting a new nickname," he replies before attacking his roasted garlic potatoes. Imagine "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," only it's shown on "Animal Planet."

"Dude, no. You're Tiger Beat for life. You're just one of them. You're a Jonathan Taylor Thomas…a Devon Sawa…a Leonardo DiCaprio. Now we're moving on towards the present-day members of your tribe. Keep up. Ok, so then we get like, Jessie McCartney…Chris Brown…oh, and what's his name…"

"Whose name?" Spencer asks.

"Who's that guy…oh God. This is really going to bother me."

"Describe him."

"Ok, the kid with the hair and the…the makeup…"

"Regis Philbin!" she screams.

And suddenly we have a dinner game.

"Spencer, seriously?" I ask, smiling.

Because, you know…everything she says is cute. Even if it's completely wrong and strange.

"Joe Jonas?" Aiden asks, innocently.

"Dude, why do you even know his name?"

What kind of adult male actually knows the Jonas Brothers individually?

Or at all?

"Josh Groban?"

"Spencer, you're not allowed to play anymore."

"Oh, I know," Chelsea says, dropping her fork, "Zac Efron!"

"That's the one."

Thank God.

"He's hot. I like him," she says with a nod.

I was going to have to agree, "I'd share my Sour Patch Kids with the guy."

"I'd totally share my Sour Patch Kids with Regis," Spencer says, "though I picture him as more of a Milk Dud sort of man."

"Sounds about right, Spence. Sounds about right."

"So, how's the wedding planning going?" Spencer asks, lighting up at just the mere thought of things being _planned_.

"It's stressful. But you'll see when you guys re-marry in the summer. It's like putting all your energy into something everyone else will enjoy but you."

"Like a threesome?" I offered with a shrug.

Chelsea laughed, "I guess?"

"Personally, I'm more concerned about the bachelor party," Aiden joked.

"I'm working really hard on it, Tiger Beat. I'm calling up every contact I've got trying to get you Clay Aiken."

"Thanks, Ash…but no thanks."

------------------------

We ducked out as soon as possible, after a half-hearted offer to wash the dishes. Well, from me at least. Spencer's offer sounded reasonably sincere. Dare I say, like she was asking for a favor. But where there is anti-bacterial soap, there is my wife with an excited smile.

She moved into my apartment completely, insisting it was important to her development as a person to part with those tile floors. And once her loft was sold, she treated herself to supplies for her new career and me to a night of sex atop a pile of hundred-dollar bills. Hey, "Indecent Proposal" had always been a favorite of movie of mine.

Afterwards, I had paper cuts in unfortunate places and I smelled like the government.

"You want tea?" she called from the kitchen, as I slipped into my over-sized "Weather Channel" t-shirt.

"Absolutely."

"Green, black, or white?"

"What do we have that's white?"

"Rose Melange."

"I'll take it."

Five minutes later, I met her on the couch.

"I love that shirt on you," she said, pulling me closer.

I was highly aware of this fact.

"Really? I had no idea," I say, feigning innocence.

"You look good in black."

I was highly aware of this fact.

"Really? I had no idea."

"I had a good time tonight. Aiden is an amazing cook."

"He makes the same thing over and over…which means, he's totally perfected this one meal and he makes it all the time. It would be like hearing that song Nelly did with Tim McGraw and assuming all of his stuff sounded like that. It doesn't."

"Who's Nelly?"

"Point taken."

"I can't wait for your show to start airing. I'm a very big fan of your work, you know."

"Now, are we talking my two appearances on 'Sesame Street' when I was five, my Clearisil commercial from when I was fifteen, or my time spent as a 'teenager on the edge' when I was drunk?"

"The first two, I'll be YouTube-ing tonight. I was more talking about your days on the edge."

"I see…my dramatic work."

"Indeed."

"Well, I think you'll like my small-screen return. I play a recovering drug-addict who works at a grocery store."

"Who knew there was a demand for such a character?"

"I know, right? Which is why the dark circles I sported on set from staying up on the phone all night with you came in handy."

"I do what I can."

"And I might have a surprise for you in the credits somewhere."

"What? What is it? You know I hate surprises!"

"Nothing major. But there's a chance I might've asked to be credited as 'Ashley Carlin.'"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Oh my God! You're my bitch!"

"Wow."

My wife. Lamp maker. Aspiring rapper.

"That's the sweetest thing ever. Come here," she says, squeezing me so tight I feel my intestines in my throat, "and when I say 'bitch' I mean…you know, you're my wife…and that's sweet."

"We should familiarize you with the definition of 'bitch' maybe, but yeah…it felt right. It's my new start as an actress, and my new start with you."

"I love you," she says, brushing away stubborn tears.

"I love you too."

And this time, _I_ squeeze _her_. Smiling like an idiot. Smiling like Julia Stiles as she reads an atrocious script. Like Aiden at the premiere of "Brokeback Mountain." Like George W. Bush…well, all the time.

And like Spencer Carlin, who's smiling back at me and crying into the heavy cotton of my favorite hoodie.


End file.
